


Stormy Waters

by silverfoxstole



Series: Stormy Waters [1]
Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-02
Updated: 2005-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hotspur is caught in the worst storm the channel has seen in months...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written a very long time ago, and archived from hornblowerfic.com. One day I may go back and rewrite it to fix a few errors.

The storm had come upon them without warning.

Squalls in the channel were commonplace, but this was something far, far worse.

The ship pitched and tossed at an alarming rate. Hornblower, who struggled with seasickness at the best of times, did his utmost to hang on to his stomach contents as he made his way on deck. A particularly big wave hit the Hotspur, throwing him head over heels as he emerged from below. His slipped, skidded on the wet deck, and eventually came to a halt in a tangle of limbs on the quarterdeck.

He lay there for a moment, feeling sicker than ever, until he became aware that he was staring directly at someone’s shoes. His gaze travelled upwards, over the oilskin coat, to the dripping countenance of Lieutenant Bush.

“Lovely day for it, sir,” Bush remarked, just about managing to hide the flicker of amusement that touched his face. He bent down to help his captain to his feet.

Hornblower, deeply embarrassed by his less than dignified entrance, tried ineffectually to straighten his hat in the teeth of the gale that was lashing the ship.

In the rigging above, men were working to reef the sails – the most they could do would be to lash everything down and hope to ride out the storm with minimal damage.

His stomach heaved again as the Hotspur rolled madly on another swell. Typically, Bush looked calm – if he were feeling any ill effects from the ship’s motion, he was hiding it well.

The rain was sheeting down, battering them all in competition with the waves. Hornblower huddled into his cloak, wishing his hat at least had a brim on it. “We’ll be lucky to get through this without damage,” he remarked, trying not to dwell on his churning stomach.

“Indeed, sir,” said Bush. There was little point in conversation – each word was taken and hurled away by the wind.

Another wave crashed over the ship, pelting them all with spray. Hornblower gasped, spluttering as the ice-cold water drenched him. He could hear Prowse barking something from the wheelhouse, but couldn’t make it out.

“Mr Bush, get those men down from the rigging!” he yelled. “I’d rather lose a mast than my crew!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Bush turned and bellowed out the order.

The men began to descend, the masts swaying dangerously. In his mind’s eye, Hornblower could see their view – the deck heaving sickeningly, rigging flapping, sails trying to escape their moorings.

The Hotspur pitched, her bows dipping as a great swell caught her from the stern. With a scream, one of the men in the rigging was thrown from his precarious perch, out into the roiling sea.

“Man overboard!” The cry went up throughout the ship.

Hornblower and Bush ran for the side, but there was nothing to be seen. The man had simply vanished, swallowed up by the churning water.

“Sir!” Midshipman Orrock had reached the deck. He had been supervising the lashing of the sails, and was soaked to the skin. “It’s Bates, sir. He’s - ”

“Yes, Mr Orrock, we know,” Hornblower snapped, angry at losing the man. “There’s nothing we can do for him now.”

“We could look for him, sir - ”

“In this sea he wouldn’t stand a chance. I’m sorry.” It was harsh, but true – they couldn’t risk the lives of more men to save one. “Check below, Mr Orrock.”

Orrock saluted, dripping. “Aye, sir.”

Bush was trying to towel his face dry on the inside of his uniform jacket. “I’ve not seen a storm like this in the Channel in a long time, sir.”

“Damn the weather!!” Hornblower exploded. “Where the Devil did it come from?”

Bush took the question literally. “From the north-east, sir. There’s been a steady wind all day.”

“We should have put into port while we had the chance.”

“It was impossible to predict, sir – the sky was clear.”

“I fear that will be little consolation if the ship is smashed to pieces, Mr Bush.” Hornblower felt his stomach pitch along with the ship. Damn his seasickness! He had hoped he would have overcome it by now, but it had never happened.

“Are you all right, sir?” Bush was looking at him in concern.

“I - ” Hornblower never completed the sentence – he dashed to the rail and voided his stomach contents over the side. He coughed, finding a sodden handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Better out than in, sir.” Bush patted him on the shoulder. “I shouldn’t think Styles’s cooking helped matters.”

Despite himself, Hornblower managed to raise a smile. “Probably not.”

They made their way back to the wheelhouse, slipping on the slick boards of the deck. Lightning rent the sky above, perilously close to the main mast. Thunder rolled, crashing and rumbling as though the very heavens were shaking.

“Are you feeling religious, Mr Bush?” Hornblower asked.

The Lieutenant gave him a puzzled glance. “Not particularly, sir.”

“I was thinking that only a miracle will keep us from losing the mast. If you feel so inclined, you have my permission to pray for one.”

A slight smile flickered at one corner of Bush’s mouth. “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

The lightning crackled above them once more. Hotspur plunged like a toy boat.

“Look out, lads, here comes a big ‘un!” Matthews yelled from the stern.

“Good God.” Hornblower stared.

A huge wave crashed towards them, a wall of water twenty feet high. It slammed into the ship, smashing across the deck and sweeping aside everything in its path.

“Bloody hell!” Bush bellowed. “Catch hold of something – anything you can!”

But it was too late – the torrent of water hit them like a brick wall. Hornblower gasped and choked, blinded by the deluge, spray lashing at his skin, spinning around him until he had no idea which way was even up any more. He thought he heard someone shout something, probably Bush, but his ears were full of water and he couldn’t make out a word.

The wave lifted him into the air – for several seconds he felt sure that this was it, that he would be washed out to sea like Bates, until his body smashed into something hard and suddenly he wasn’t moving any longer.

He clung to what he realised groggily was the starboard rail – that sturdy piece of wood had saved his life.

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

Hornblower gazed blearily through stinging eyes at the man standing at his shoulder. It took some seconds for all the blurred dots to coalesce into the face of Matthews.

“Good God, sir, we thought we’d lost you,” the bos’n said, relief evident in his voice.

Hornblower was reluctant to let go of the rail – the ship was still rolling fiercely. He glanced around, frowning, as his surroundings once more came into focus. There was Matthews, and Styles at his side, Orrock emerging from below deck, Prowse at the wheel…someone was missing.

“Where is Mr Bush?” he asked.

Matthews looked grave. Hornblower realised that the bos’n was staring at a section of the rail, a few feet from where Hornblower himself still held on. A section of the rail that quite suddenly was no longer there.

“Oh, dear God.”

 

To be continued...


	2. Part One

“Man over board!”

The cry went up round the ship once more.

“Sir!” shouted Matthews. “Over here, sir!”

Hornblower slid his way over to the bos’n, who was standing perilously close to the open stretch of deck. Together they peered over the side – Hornblower’s heart lifted as he saw what had caught Matthew’s attention.

Several feet below, barely above the heaving sea, a bedraggled Bush was clinging to a rope that had come loose. He looked up, evidently having heard Matthews’s shout, and relief crossed his face for a second as he caught sight of Hornblower. As the Hotspur rocked on a big wave once more, Hornblower realised that time was of the essence.

“We have to get him up here,” he said, “Styles! Lend a hand, man!”

“Should I get a rope, sir?” Styles asked when he reached them.

“No time for that. Just hold on to me – I’m going to try to reach him.”

The big man looked doubtful, but did as he was told. He and Matthews took a firm hold of their captain as he leaned over the side of the ship. Hornblower could still see Bush below him, but his grip on the rope was looking tenuous at best. He reached out as far as he could – he was still too far away. “Lower me down!” he yelled over his shoulder. Matthews and Styles obliged – he was hanging very precariously over the edge now, something he tried not to think about too much.

“William!” he shouted. “Take hold of my hand!”

Bush stared up at him in amazement. “Don’t be a fool!”

“That’s an order, Mr Bush! Take my hand!”

“You’re mad, sir!”

“Perhaps – but you’re no use to me drowned!”

The ship rolled on a swell once more, soaking them both even further. Hornblower’s cloak was flapping madly round his shoulders, obscuring his vision. “William, come on!” he called desperately.

The waves getting closer seemed to spur Bush to a decision. Tentatively letting go of the rope with one hand, he reached it towards Hornblower. For several seconds they both flailed wildly until the Hotspur dipped obligingly. Hornblower caught hold of his friend’s hand, gripping it tightly.

“Are you all right, sir?” Matthews called from above.

“Get ready to pull us up!” Hornblower shouted back, adding his free hand to his grip on Bush’s. “William, let go of the rope!”

Bush looked at him as though he were insane. There was fear in his eyes, something Hornblower had rarely seen before. “I…I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. If you don’t, I can’t pull you up!”

“Sir - ” Matthews again, sounding urgent. “Sir, there’s another big ‘un heading our way - ”

“William!” Hornblower yelled. “You have to let go!”

“Sir!” shouted Matthews.

Bush let go of the rope, just as the wave hit the ship. Hornblower bellowed in pain as he crashed against the Hotspur’s hull, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Bush’s weight was nearly pulling his arms from their sockets. He looked down and wished he hadn’t – the sea churned below like a witch’s cauldron. Bush’s terrified face was staring up at him, his free hand scrabbling for purchase. He was hanging there, only Hornblower’s grip on his hand between him and death. His feet swung desperately in mid air.

“Please, Horatio,” he called, his voice cracking, “Don’t let me drown!”

Hornblower could feel his rain-slicked fingers losing their grip. Bush could feel it too, his eyes wide in horror.

“Sir!” shouted Styles, “Sir, we can’t – we can’t hold on!”

“You must! Just a few - ”

Hotspur plunged, caught by a huge swell, tipping her right over to starboard. Hornblower felt himself swing out from the ship – a jolt went through him, his fingers slipping. He scrabbled, trying to catch Bush’s hand again, but it was too late. Bush’s fingers slid from his, the lieutenant plunging towards the roiling sea below. He stared in absolute horror as Bush hit the water.

He could still hear Bush’s final cry as he fell.

“Horatio!!”

The water closed over him, and William Bush was gone.

 

***

Hornblower stared over the side.

“We ‘ave to find ‘im, sir,” Styles said, eyes searching the heaving sea for any sign of life. Hornblower had always failed to fathom the relationship between Bush and Styles – Bush never gave the big man an easy time, and yet Styles would hear no word against his lieutenant, and had been the one to find Bush that day on the Renown when he had been almost cut in two by a Spaniard’s sword. “We can’t just leave ‘im to the sea!”

“We cannot risk the lives of every man aboard this ship,” Hornblower said, even though it went against every instinct in his body. He’d lost Archie, then Bracegirdle…was he now going to lose Bush for a similarly pointless reason?

“We could try, sir,” said Matthews, “Take the boat - ”

“No! I won’t lose any more men.” I can’t lose any more men! Two was two too many. Besides, if he went after Bush, how could he justify abandoning Bates to his fate? “Mr Bush would understand.” He tried not to think of him, struggling in the sea, unable even to help himself. Like many sailors, despite spending half his life at sea, Bush had never learnt to swim.

Matthews nodded reluctantly. Styles looked mutinous, but said nothing. The ominous bass of the thunder rumbled around them again.

Hornblower tried to concentrate on the task in hand, keeping the Hotspur in one piece. He desperately fought to turn his mind from the thought that Bush was somewhere out there, fighting for his life against the elements. Two names for the list he would have to write. Jn Bates, Able Seaman, Wm Bush, Fst Lt: Missing, presumed drowned.

Drowning. The one fate that scared Bush more than anything else. Hornblower remembered the last time he’d seen such fear on his friend’s face, in Samana Bay, when the jollyboat was sinking; remembered Bush’s desperate shouts, knowing that his arm was trapped under the anchor cable. Terror had sparked in his eyes as the water closed over his head.

“Hornblower! Don’t let me drown!”

He closed his eyes. How many more did he have to lose? How many more friends had to die?

***

Water? Why was it always water?

It was ridiculous, a sailor being unable to swim! William Bush had been at sea for most of his life, knew her moods, her vagaries, loved her unpredictability. And yet, he had always felt far more confident on the sea than below it.

It was cold, freezing cold. From the moment he’d hit the water, the shock and impact punching the air from his lungs, he had been unable to feel anything. He thrashed, sinking further, blind in the dark, bottle green depths. He’d known from that moment that he was lost – no one would ever find him here.

So this was drowning. He had never entertained any intention of drowning – if he were to die, it would surely be in battle, not in such an ignominious way as this. He had heard that drowning didn’t hurt…

His lungs were burning. Was that right? No idea which way was up. Where was the surface?

“She’s going down! She’s going!”

Was that his own voice, shouting in desperation? Suddenly he could feel the weight of the anchor dragging him under as the jollyboat sank beneath the waves. His arm, caught under the cable…he couldn’t free it, couldn’t stop himself going under…he panicked, called out to the one person who maybe could save him…

“Hornblower! Don’t let me drown!”

At that moment, the water closing over him, he had been convinced that he was going to die. He struggled, frantically trying to free himself, the huge weight of the anchor dragging him to the bottom of the bay. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t…

Hands were suddenly there, pulling at the rope, releasing his pinioned arm. Someone was grabbing the other, guiding him to safety. As he broke the surface, gasping and shaking, there was Hornblower, a huge grin on his face.

And later, that same grin on a cliff top…

“Don’t worry, Mr Bush, it’s only water!”

“You won’t break anything!”

That had been debatable. There was no way out, they were trapped, a ruined fort and a rebel army behind them, nothing but the sea ahead. Bush was practical, he hadn’t for a moment thought that his two junior officers would be so foolhardy…until they had grabbed him between them and run him off the cliff…

Two laughing young men, one of them dead and disgraced, the other…

Bush had beard it said that the life of a dying man flashed before his eyes…he could see nothing but the past. He’d come through so much…

…was it really going to end like this?

 

 

To be continued…


	3. Part Three

Over two days had passed since the storm.

The winds had all but died away in an hour, leaving the Hotspur becalmed to lick her wounds and make repairs before limping home. The damage to the masts could only be repaired in dock at Portsmouth.

Hornblower sat in his cabin, alone. Many times over the past few hours he had picked up his pen to write the letter he knew had to be written but for which words eluded him. Bush’s sisters must be told, and it made sense that he should be the one to break the terrible news. However, the words refused to come. He still couldn’t believe what had happened himself – how could he possibly explain it to them? Remembering the Christmas he had spent at the cottage in Chichester, seeing how the three women doted on their brother…they would be devastated.

There was a knock on the cabin door. Orrock appeared when summoned. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a boat coming alongside.”

Hornblower groaned. He’d sent a note to Maria, feeling disinclined to return home and listen to Mrs Mason’s mutterings, but he had no doubt that a letter reproaching him had been swiftly dispatched to the Hotspur. “Take whatever letters they have, Mr Orrock. I’m not to be disturbed.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Who the devil could that be? Probably someone from the Admiralty, demanding more reports. “Whom?”

Orrock looked impressed. “Admiral Pellew, sir.”

 

***

“A bad business, Hornblower.”

“Indeed, sir.” What else could he say? “Mr Bush was a loyal and highly competent officer.”

“And a good friend.” Pellew waved a hand. “Sit down, man. I know how difficult losing a friend is, especially under such circumstances.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hornblower sank into his chair. The letter still lay on the desk, barely begun.

Pellew paced the cabin. “You have informed the family, I take it?”

“I am in the midst of doing so, sir. It is…difficult.”

“Never gets any easier.” The admiral turned from the window to look at Hornblower directly. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Hornblower did, seeing once again Bush’s terrified face staring up at him. It would no doubt haunt him for months to come. “There was nothing we could do, sir. The weather…we could never have found him.”

Pellew nodded. “As you said, the loss of a good officer, in a terrible accident.”

“Yes, sir.” Hornblower couldn’t help wondering about the reason for Pellew’s visit. Bush’s loss was serious to him personally, but it hardly warranted a visit from the admiral.

“I have new orders for you, Captain,” Pellew said now. “You will sail on the morning tide.”

“Already, sir? I - ” Now he really would get a scolding letter from Maria, if he failed to return home at all.

“I know you were hoping to return to your family, but this is pressing. Something is happening along the south coast. I need a ship to carry out surveillance without attracting attention. The Hotspur will be that ship.”

“Very well, sir.” Hornblower frowned, confused. For the last six months they had been watching the French coast – why should they now pay attention to home shores? Still, orders were orders, and he couldn’t argue with the admiral.

Pellew picked up his hat. “Pay special attention to small inlets and beaches. All manner of fascinating things wash up there,” he said, clapping it on his head. There was a familiar smile in his eyes. “Remember that.”

 

***

The storm had cleared to a beautiful day.

Little damage had been done ashore – the gnarled old oak tree in the garden had toppled over in the night, crushing part of Pa’s carefully built fence and giving the chickens their freedom, but they had been lucky. Others were not so fortunate.

It had been a fearful night to be at sea, Anna reflected as she made her way down to the beach, following those of her siblings who paid no heed to the steepness of the cliff path. Even from here she could see the debris washed up on the shore, the remains of a mast top which the boys were even now clambering over, searching for a prize. Anna wondered what had happened to the rest of the ship – had she made the safety of port, or was she even now lying helpless on the rocks in the next cove?

She scrambled down the incline, hitching up her skirts to avoid getting them covered in mud. “Wait for me!” she called to Sam, the littlest of her brothers, as he reached the foot of the cliff. He looked up, gave her a cheeky grin and hared off across the wet sand to join the others. Anna sighed. Within moments he would be soaked through, his clothes ruined. And she had promised Pa that she would keep the boys tidy for church.

Jack was standing atop the spar, waving to her. “Anna! Come and look! It’s come from a ship!”

“A big ship, too!” cried Georgy. “It wasn’t a fishing boat!”

“It’s from a warship, I know it is!”

“Come down from there, both of you!” Anna called, making her way across the beach towards them. “You’ll fall!”

“Look - ” Jack climbed round the spar, wobbling dangerously. “It’s still got ropes attached to it! And sails - ”

“Jack, get down. If Pa were to see you - ” Anna ran forwards, slipping in the puddles left by the tide.

Too late. Craning over to see better, Jack overbalanced, tumbling from the spar with a cry.

“Jack!”

“It’s all right,” said Georgy, scrambling down to meet Anna. “He didn’t fall on his head.”

“He’s here!” shouted Sam from the other side of the spar. Jack appeared behind him, covered with wet sand but otherwise unharmed. “And there’s a - ”

Jack elbowed him aside. “Anna, there’s a dead body here! Come and see!”

A corpse was the last thing Anna wanted to look at. She slowly navigated the spar, hoping that the thing hadn’t been in the water for long. Their father had hauled a drowned man out of the sea a month back while fishing – the sight had been the most unpleasant thing Anna had ever seen. Bile crept into her throat at the thought of it. She had to look, then she could tell Pa, and he would tell the authorities.

Jack, with the fascination of a young boy, was crouching beside a crumpled figure on the sand. From the look of him, the man must have been washed up with the spar in the night, may even have been holding on to it. He was not a large man, wrapped in an oilskin greatcoat. Anna could see the familiar navy blue uniform beneath the coat: an officer, then. That was unusual. Tentatively, she turned him over onto his back – his face was chalk white, bruised and cut, curls of dark hair stuck to it.

“He’s a sailor,” said Sam, wide-eyed.

“ He’s n’officer, stupid,” Georgy told him sniffily.

“I knew that!”

Anna touched the man’s face. He was frozen, but it didn’t feel like the chill of death. Her hand hovered before his mouth – she was startled to feel a very faint heat on her skin. He was breathing! “Jack – fetch Pa,” she told her brother urgently.

He looked at her in surprise. “He won’t go to Mr Bradbury on a Sunday.”

“We don’t need Mr Bradbury, we need a doctor. This man is still alive!”

 

***

“New orders, sir?” Prowse asked as Hornblower came on deck.

“Indeed, Mr Prowse. We sail on the morning tide.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Bit soon, isn’t it, sir?” Matthews asked quietly.

Hornblower sighed, deciding to ignore the lapse in formality. Matthews was the only member of the crew he would allow to get away with it. Apart from Bush…there was a big hole at the heart of the ship where his First Lieutenant should be. “Perhaps,” he said. Fortunately, they were sailing too soon for a replacement to be assigned to the sloop. Mr Orrock would have to take on Bush’s duties for now.

Pellew’s orders still mystified him. What was the point of sailing up and down the English coastline? Surely the French wouldn’t be hiding anything on British shores? Unless there was a possibility that a French ship had also run into difficulties in the storm…if that was the case she could even now be lying in a little-known cove somewhere, her secrets there for the taking…

The admiral’s words began to make a little more sense. “Pay special attention to small inlets and beaches. All manner of fascinating things wash up there.” Maybe this would be the opportunity they’d been hoping for.

***  
“Well done, Anna.” Pa bent down beside her as she cradled the half-drowned man in her arms. “You found him just in time.”  
“Is he going to die?” Sam asked, peering at the man’s terribly pale face. He looked dead already – Anna had been unable to coax a response out of him.  
“Not if we can help it, Sammy. Run ahead and tell Martha we’re on our way, there’s a good boy,” she said. Excited at being given so responsible a task ahead of his brothers, he dashed off, scrambling up the cliff path as fast as he could.  
“Jack, fetch Doctor Lambert,” said Pa, taking the sailor from Anna. He hefted the slight body in his arms, carrying the man as though he weighed no more than a child.  
“Will he die, Pa?” Anna asked anxiously, trotting along at his side.  
Pa looked grim. “We’ll do the best we can for him, girl. We can only hope it’ll be enough.”

To be continued…


	4. Part Four

The kitchen was a hive of activity.

Jack had returned with Doctor Lambert barely five minutes after Pa carried the stranger into the house. Now Martha was bustling about, warming blankets and stoking the fire.

“This is no place for you, Miss Anna,” she clucked, trying to chase her out of the kitchen as Pa stripped the sailor of his wet clothes.

“Oh, Martha, don’t be ridiculous! I’m far too old to worry about maidenly modesty,” Anna said, turning and firmly shutting the inquisitive boys out of the room.

“It is fortunate you found him when you did,” said Doctor Lambert, rummaging in his big leather bag.

“Will he live?” Anna couldn’t help asking.

The doctor parted the blankets Martha had wrapped around the stranger, listening to the man’s chest. The white lines of old scars gleamed in the firelight – Anna’s sailor had been wounded before, and badly. “The heart is still beating strongly. There are some rather unpleasant contusions,” Lambert remarked, pushing the blanket away to reveal a mottling of nasty purple bruising around the man’s left shoulder. “This arm appears to have been almost wrenched from its socket.”

Martha returned from the pantry with a bottle. “Brandy, sir.”

“Thank you. Hold his head, please, Richard.”

Pa did so. The doctor measured some liquor into a glass, and then proceeded to pour it down the stranger’s throat. The majority of it failed to hit the target, spilling from the sides of his mouth, but it had the desired effect. A few moments later he came to life, coughing, then choking. Anna jumped as he turned his head, retching, and brought up half the channel on the kitchen floor.

She rubbed his back. “It’s all right. Be calm.”

He lay there, supported by Pa, gasping for breath. Eventually he raised his head – a pair of big fuzzy blue eyes stared up at her in confusion. Their gaze lingered on her for a moment, before moving over Pa’s face to the sharp, dark countenance of Doctor Lambert. A puzzled frown settled on the stranger’s battered features. For a moment his mouth worked silently before he managed to find his voice. Hoarsely he whispered, “…Horatio?”

Anna bent over him. “Is that your name?” she asked gently.

He blinked up at her, uncomprehending. A second later his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed back in Pa’s arms.

Doctor Lambert rested a hand on his forehead. “He will take a little time to recover. Until he does…”

“He will stay here, with us, won’t he, Pa?” said Anna, glancing at her father. “We can look after him.”

The doctor looked at Pa. “Richard? I can have him moved to the hospital - ”

Pa shook his head. “It would be too great a journey. No, he will remain here.”

Lambert nodded. “As you wish.”

“And I will make some enquiries,” Pa added. “A ship somewhere is missing a mast. And a lieutenant.”

 

***

“Damnation!”

Hornblower lowered the telescope, frustrated.

Nothing.

Six days, and nothing.

Though this was not a surprise in itself, he would have expected some hint of activity if Pellew had seen fit to send them to observe. Even when they had spent months sailing up and down the French coast they had been given glimpses of something happening. Here there was nothing beyond the usual maritime activity of England: a fishing smack here, a revenue cutter, or a packet heading for the continent there.

Why the devil had they been sent here if there was no evidence of the French?

“Take us out, Mr Prowse,” he said, turning to the master. “We will continue into the next cove.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Though he would not voice the thought, it was clear from Prowse’s tone that he considered that they were wasting their time.

The men were becoming restless without action. Hornblower had considered exercising the guns, but could not yet bring himself to do so – Bush’s absence would be more keenly felt than ever. He was trying not to think about Bush.

He raised the glass once more, training it on the coastline. They had to find something soon.

 

***

“Miss Maitland!”

Anna turned upon hearing her name to see Mrs Holden, the parson’s wife, waving to her from the churchyard. She was not surprised – the news of the sailor’s appearance on the beach had spread quickly round the village.

“How is your visitor, Anna?” Mrs Holden asked eagerly, resting her flower basket on the low stone wall that edged the church grounds.

Anna smiled – the parson’s wife was the biggest gossip in Amsworth. “Recovering well, thank you. The doctor is pleased with his progress.”

“You still have no clue as to his identity?” There was a hopeful note in Mrs Holden’s voice.

“I am afraid not. He is not yet able to tell us anything. It will take time.”

Mrs Holden’s face fell. “Oh. Well - ”

“You will have to excuse me, Mrs Holden,” Anna said politely, lifting her basket. “I must take these to Martha – she will be waiting for them. Good day to you.”

She left the parson’s wife muttering behind her, waling briskly back to the house. Martha was in the kitchen when she slipped through the rear door, up to her elbows in flour and directing Jenny, the maid, in the finer points of making a suet pudding.

Anna set down her basket, unpacking the groceries the housekeeper had requested.

“I have some news for you,” Martha said, as Anna laid out the jars on the table, “Your sailor woke half an hour ago.”

Anna glance up, concerned. “Was anyone with him?”

“Jenny was clearing the grate. He’s talking, Miss Anna. I think he’s going to recover.”

 

***

Anna crept up the stairs.

The house was quiet – the boys at school, Pa out in the fields somewhere. She could hear Martha singing to herself, the sound drifting down the hallway.

The little bedroom under the eaves was dim, the curtains pulled tight across the window to keep out the afternoon sunlight. Anna shut the door softly behind her and tiptoed over to the well-worn armchair beside the bed.

The figure beneath the blankets was lying still, eyes closed, long dark hair curling as it spread across the pillow. Anna had watched the stranger sleep many times over the past few days.

Despite Martha’s protestations, Anna herself had taken on the task of nursing him. The housekeeper muttered about gossip, and Anna’s reputation – Anna cared little for such things. At twenty-six, she had been too long on the shelf to worry about propriety and tittle-tattle.

Sometimes her charge had woken, disorientated and unaware of his surroundings. She held his hand, as she did her brothers’ when they were sick, stroking his hair until he became quiet once more. He seemed to be soothed by her light touch on his forehead, the lines on his face relaxing. Beneath the bruises he was a handsome man, his features strong and well sculpted. Unusually for a sailor, though his hands were rough and calloused, his face was not weather beaten at all, only the fine lines round his eyes betraying hours spent squinting at the sun.

Anna guessed that he was perhaps ten, fifteen years older than her. She wondered whether he had a wife and children at home, anxiously awaiting his safe return. Lying there in the big brass-framed bed, one of Pa’s nightshirts hanging on his slight frame, he looked like a little boy dressing up in someone else’s clothes.

She smiled, and leaned over to gently smooth back a stray lock of hair that had fallen over his face. As she did, he stirred, eyelids fluttering, mumbling something under his breath. Ann sat forwards in the chair as his eyes eventually opened fully, blinking up at her in surprise.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly, “You’re quite safe.”

There was bewilderment on his face. “…I don’t understand,” he whispered hoarsely, “…why am I not dead?”

 

***

William Bush was dreaming.

He knew that this was so because he could feel his mother stroking his brow, just as she had always done whenever he was ill, or frightened by some nightmare. But his mother was dead, passed away two years ago now.

He could recall little after the icy grip of the sea closed on him, his lungs burning from a lack of air. Drowning wasn’t painless – it hurt like hell! Memory was a jumble of snatched voices and garbled sounds, invading the peaceful darkness that cocooned him.

Eventually became aware that he was lying on something soft. There was no movement, so he couldn’t be back in his cot on board the Hotspur.

Sensation gradually returned, a dull ache making itself felt all over his body. His head felt as though it was full of wadding. With an effort, he opened his eyes.

He was lying in an unfamiliar bed in a room he could never recall seeing in his life before. It was plain, the furniture worn and a little shabby, the ceiling sloping overhead. Warm sunlight touched his face through a gap in the curtains.

Where the devil was he?

He found he couldn’t remember anything clearly, nothing beyond the icy cold of the water, the blackness stealing over him. Evidently he was back on land, but how had he got there?

Rolling over in the bed, he tried to push himself up on one elbow to take a better look at his surroundings. As he did, agony shot through his left shoulder. He gave a great shout of pain, cursing and falling back onto the pillows, startling the girl who had been, unnoticed, clearing the grate.

She flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet.

Bush stared at her. “Where…where am I?” he asked, his voice sounding rusty and weak.

“Whitethorn House, sir,” the girl fairly squeaked, bobbing a curtsey before she fled from the room.

Bush lay still, feeling the fire in his shoulder subside a little. He must have fallen asleep again, for when he next opened his eyes he could feel the lingering touch of gentle fingers on his brow.

He blinked.

There was an angel sitting beside his bed.

So he really was dead, then. But surely dead men didn’t feel pain?

He blinked again, and as his vision cleared he realised that the ‘angel’ was in fact a pretty and very human girl. He had no idea who she was. Her honey-blonde hair was tucked under a demure lace cap – though she was barely a girl, he decided, probably of a similar age to his sister Charlotte, she was far too young to be indulging in the fancies of a middle-aged woman. He was conscious of an impulse to ask her to take such a ridiculous thing off.

She smiled, seeing his confusion. “It’s all right,” she said in a voice that was soft and musical, “You’re quite safe.”

Bush closed his eyes for a moment, trying to understand. He had no idea what was happening to him. How had he not drowned?

He tried to move again – new pain lanced through his chest. Suddenly he recalled a similar pain, felt before…someone desperately pulling on his arm…hanging in mid-air above raging water, terror flooding through him…Hornblower’s horrified face above him as his grip slid away and he plunged into the depths below…

Bush looked at the woman sitting beside the bed, feeling utterly bewildered. “…I don’t understand,” he said, voice rasping, “…why am I not dead?”

The woman smiled once more. She had kind, concerned eyes, sea blue in colour, he noticed absently. “You very nearly were. Would have been, had not one of my brothers found you on the beach. You were half-drowned, washed up by the tide.”

He nodded, laying his head back on the pillow. Shipwrecked. That explained much.

“You should rest,” the soft voice continued, “The doctor will be here to see you this evening.”

Bush sighed, closing his eyes. Thinking was far too much of an effort at present – his head was swimming.

It did not occur to him to wonder how his disappearance had affected others.

 

To be continued…


	5. Part Five

As expected, a letter from Maria arrived with the next packet boat. As expected, it was full of reproach over his failure to return home for even one night. The scolding tone irritated Hornblower – he could almost hear his mother-in-law dictating the words.

When Maria had finished telling her Horry (Lord, how he hated that pet name!) how disappointed she was, the rest of the missive was taken up with sympathy – she had inevitably heard about Bush, and commiserated with him over it, knowing how poor Horry must be feeling to have lost his friend. She was going to church, and would light a candle for dear William. Hornblower wondered how Bush would have reacted to being referred to as such – with a wry smile and a flush of embarrassment, probably.

He screwed up the letter and pushed it away. He had broken his resolve – for nearly two days (though not the nights, the nights haunted him) he had managed to keep his guilt at bay, managed not to think about Bush. Now Maria had unwittingly brought everything crashing back.

He had failed William, failed to save him. If only he had managed to hang on for a minute or two longer…Though somewhere deep inside he knew he had done all he could, he would not allow himself to believe it. There must have been something, some action he could have taken…that he had not done so was his fault, and his fault alone. Bush’s death was on his hands.

There was a knock at the cabin door.

Hornblower raised his head, wearily. “Come.”

When the door opened, he still half-expected to see Bush standing there, calm and efficient, with some news. Cold reality gripped him when Orrock appeared in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re wanted on deck. Mr Prowse has spotted something through the glass.”

“Thank you, Mr Orrock – I’ll come right away.” Hornblower dragged himself out of his chair, looking around for his hat. Pray God something was finally happening – he desperately needed a distraction.

 

***

The next time Bush awoke, he was alone in the room.

He lay there for a while, staring up at the sloping ceiling, wondering what time it was. Come to that, he had no idea even what day it was. How long had it been since the storm? He could have been unconscious for weeks for all he knew.

After a long while, he tried sitting up. This time he was careful to put his weight on his right arm, pushing himself upright. So far so good. He brushed aside the heavy coverlet, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The borrowed nightshirt swamped him, the hem covering his feet as they met the cool floorboards. Slowly, he stood up, leaning on the chest beside the bed for support. His body was damnably stiff, every bruise making itself felt as he straightened. The pain in his shoulder had settled to a dull, burning ache.

He took a step forwards, and gasped as the room lurched around him as though it had suddenly been caught by a swell. His hands clutched the side of the chest just in time to prevent a nasty fall. Breathing quickly, he held on, squeezing his eyes shut until the dizziness passed. He hated being ill. He was a sailor, for God’s sake – a bit of rolling should mean nothing to him!

Bush gingerly opened his eyes again, and took another step. Under his feet the floorboards seem to rise and fall like the deck of a pitching ship. His sea legs would have been a godsend now, but they seemed to have deserted him.

Somehow, he made it across the undulating floor, his progress painfully slow, like a child learning to walk. He reached the window, and twitched the curtain aside, leaning heavily on the ledge. Before him the view stretched away – Whitethorn House had been built on a cliff-top. The window of Bush’s little room, high under the eaves, gave a panorama across the small garden with its hardy flowering shrubs, out across the headland to the cove below. The cliff fell away sharply half a mile beyond the house, and beyond that…

The sea. Shimmering in the early evening sunlight, the sky gradually turning from blue to pink, and then orange as the sun went down. He found himself desperately searching for sails on the horizon, but there were none. His shoulders slumped.

Of course. It was ludicrous to suppose that they might come looking for him, or even that they would find this place. He had been lost at sea. A name on a list, a prayer read for his soul, and that would be all. The Admiralty would not waste resources trying to find the body of a mere lieutenant. There would have been letters…Bush groaned at the thought of his sisters receiving such a missive. He could imagine them: Sally trying to remain strong for the others, Lizzie weeping into her handkerchief, Charlotte wandering the cottage like a ghost…

Something caught his eye just then. A frown creased his forehead as he peered through the glass, trying to catch sight of it once more. Yes! There it was again – on the headland, maybe two or three miles away, a light glinting from something. The reflected beam moved slightly – the only object Bush could think it reminded him of was a telescope, the light caught by the glass. But why would someone be watching the cove with a telescope?

His head still felt too fuzzy to reason properly. He turned, intending to return to bed. As he let go of the window ledge, however, he felt his legs buckle beneath him and he fell, hitting the floorboards with a heavy thump. The impact jarred his injured shoulder, and he gave a yell of pain, accompanied by some choice obscenities that would have made all but the most hardened jack tar blush.

Bush lay there in impotent fury, unable to get to his feet despite several attempts. He was too weak – as he tried again to rise, he heard the door open, and footsteps on the floorboards. A moment later, strong hands were lifting him. He mumbled his thanks, flushing in embarrassment to have been found so helpless.

“Come now, sir, you should not be out of bed,” said a voice to his left. Bush turned his head to see a lean, dark man with hair cut in a fashionable crop at his side. At the other was a veritable giant, an older gentleman in a bag wig and buff coat – he had a look of the young woman Bush had seen earlier at his bedside, her father perhaps?

They helped him back to the bed – Bush was too tired to argue with the first man. He saw the leather bag on the chair and realised that this must be the doctor. Sinking gratefully against the pillows, he submitted to having his tongue examined and his pulse felt, despite his usual distrust of physicians.

“Excellent,” the doctor declared, “You are recovering well. Some weakness is only to be expected after your ordeal, but that will pass. You have been very lucky, Mr…?”

“Bush. William Bush. First Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Sloop Hotspur, sir,” Bush croaked.

“We had been wondering at the identity of our guest,” said the big man with a smile. “My name is Richard Maitland, sir. The quack is Anthony Lambert, a good friend of mine. You may trust that he knows one end of a man from the other.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “I believe you would like some water, Mr Bush.”

Bush nodded – he hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until he tried to talk. The doctor held his head while he drank – when he had been laid back on his pillows, he said, “I must thank you, sir, for taking such care of me. I confess, I hadn’t expected to survive.”

“You have my daughter to thank for that – she has been looking after you.”

“I’m very grateful to her. May I ask a question?”

Maitland nodded. “Of course. You wish to ask where you are, am I correct?”

“When the storm overcame us we had just weathered the Isle of Wight. I must have been in the water for some time - ”

“You were washed up in Amsworth Bay. We are but a few miles from Lewes, in Sussex.”

Bush gave a sigh of relief. Not so far from home, then. “I will have been given up for dead, sir – my sisters, they will have been informed - ”

“If you furnish me with their direction, I will see that they receive the news that you are alive and well,” said Maitland, getting to his feet. On seeing his great height towering over the bed, Bush had no doubt that Maitland was the owner of his borrowed nightshirt.

“The Admiralty, my captain - ” Bush could feel sleep creeping over him again, his eyelids becoming heavy. He struggled against it.

“They will be informed. Though if your ship is at sea the news will take longer to reach them. I will do my best.”

“Thank you, sir. You have been most kind.”

Lambert gathered up his bag. “I will see you again tomorrow, Mr Bush. In the meantime I prescribe rest, as much as possible.”

Bush’s last thought as sleep overcame him once more was that he really didn’t have much choice in the matter.

 

***

“There, sir! Just off the port bow!”

Hornblower trained his own glass in the direction Prowse was pointing. After a moment he saw a flash of light on the cliff-top. It moved slightly, then again. “What is it? A signal?”

“Could be, sir, but it looks more like someone watching us to me,” said Prowse. “I’ve been observing it for the last half an hour.”

Of course! Sunlight reflecting from the lens of a telescope! “Take us in closer, Mr Prowse.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Prowse turned and started shouting orders to his subordinates.

Hornblower felt relief flood through him. Finally, they had found something!

 

 

To be continued…


	6. Part Six

“I don’t like it, sir, I don’t like it at all.”

“Thank you, Mr Prowse, I had gathered that,” Hornblower said irritably.

After two days, the lights on the headland were still there. A closer examination of the bay revealed a tower on the headland – the lights appeared to be coming from the building at irregular intervals. Though only the appearance of the sun revealed the presence of their observer, Hornblower had no doubt that the unknown watcher was there all the time. It was disconcerting, knowing that someone was aware of his every move.

“Sir, you don’t suppose they could be signalling, do you?” asked Orrock.

“To whom, Mr Orrock? We are the only vessel in the vicinity,” Hornblower snapped.

Orrock looked at his feet. “Sorry, sir.”

The waiting was annoying Hornblower. He paced the quarterdeck for some minutes, trying to decide upon a course of action. Eventually he snapped the glass shut. “Mr Prowse, take us in a little closer. Mr Orrock, prepare to lower a boat.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the two men replied in unison.

Hornblower had made up his mind. If the action wasn’t going to come to him, he would hunt it out himself.

***

Anna tapped lightly on the bedroom door.

On receiving a quiet invitation to enter, she slipped into the room to find to her surprise that Lieutenant Bush was dressed and sitting in the armchair by the window.

“I didn’t expect to see you up so soon,” she remarked, perching on the ledge and settling her skirts.

He smiled – it had the effect of giving his sometimes stern face a rather boyish aspect. “I think I’ve had enough sleep to last me a lifetime.”

“Doctor Lambert will not be pleased.”

“Doctor Lambert may go to the Devil,” Bush told her emphatically, then coloured as he realised exactly what he’d said. “Sorry, Miss Maitland.”

Anna shook her head. “Don’t apologize – I’m not some green girl who has never heard a man curse before.”

“Even so – my mother would be horrified with me.”

“I would have thought it inevitable for a sailor to acquire a …rich vocabulary.”

“Indeed, but it’s not done to use such words in polite company.” Bush chuckled at a memory. “I once swore within the hearing of one of my sisters – my mother took me by the ear, marched me to the kitchen and washed my mouth out with soap.”

Anna laughed. “Martha would have done the same to Jack when he acquired some particularly vile expressions, had he let her catch him.”

“What did he do?”

“Took refuge in the apple tree in the garden. He stayed there all day.”

“Sensible lad. He intends to go to sea, you know.”

“Has he been bothering you?” Anna asked, horrified at the thought of her brother plaguing their guest.

Bush shook his head. “I was glad of the company. Your Doctor Lambert would allow me to do nothing more than lie still and become better acquainted with the ceiling.”

“He will be surprised by your progress.”

“I have survived worse.”

Remembering the scars she had seen, Anna could believe it. He was regaining his strength quickly – it was evident that Pa had sent Duncan up to help him, as he had shaved, and was dressed in the uniform Martha had taken such pains to rescue after its prolonged immersion in the sea. His long mane of hair was braided and tied neatly into a queue which reached halfway down his back.

He was looking out of the window, presenting her with a fine view of his profile, clear cut against the glass.

“Does something interest you outside?” she asked.

He frowned. “I’m not sure. That building over there – what is it?”

She followed the line of his pointing finger. “Just the old tower. It’s ruined, falling down. The revenue men used it as a vantage point until it became unstable.”

“Then no one lives there?”

“They could not – the place would crumble about their ears,” said Anna. “It was once part of a fortified manor house. Only the tower remains.”

The frown between Bush’s brows deepened. “Hmm.”

“Is something the matter?” She twisted, trying to see what may have caught his eye, but there was nothing.

“There may be,” he said. He turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me, Miss Maitland – do you have a telescope?”

***

“Matty, d’you reckon drowning hurts?”

“Who knows? Ain’t no one come back to tell us.” Matthews found himself wincing as he watched Styles jab the needle into the sailcloth he was mending with alarming ferocity.

“It ain’t right, all this sittin’ about. We should be doin’ summat.”

“Just stow it, Styles. Orders is orders. I thought you might’ve learnt to keep yer mouth shut by now.”

Styles snorted. “Ain’t no one t’ threaten to string me up by me thumbs if I don’t, is there?”

Matthews tried to hide a smile. Styles had been even more restless than usual since the storm, muttering and scowling. He needed a firm hand to keep in line – the captain was preoccupied and Mr Orrock was too young to have the necessary authority. Only one person besides Hornblower could successfully make Styles buckle down.

“If I didn’t know you better, Styles, I’d think you were missing Mr Bush,” Matthews said.

Styles muttered something and stabbed at the sailcloth again.

“I thought you were always telling me what a bastard he was.”

There was a long pause. Eventually Styles said, “D’you think he really is dead?”

Matthews sighed, and shook his head. “He wouldn’t ‘ave stood much of a chance in that sea.”

“Nothin’ good ever came out of a storm like that. Two lost souls…”

“Styles, if we’re going to ‘ave you spouting doom and gloom again I’ll chuck yer over the side meself!” Matthews exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

“We shouldn’t ‘ave left ‘em, Johnny and Mr Bush. They’ll come back to haunt us,” muttered Styles. A moment later he yelled as he accidentally drove the needle into his finger.

“Watch it!” Matthews whipped the sail away before Styles could bleed all over it.

There was a footstep aft. Styles jumped and looked warily round, but there was no ghost behind them, only Mr Orrock.

“Captain wants you both right away,” the midshipman said, “We’re going ashore.”

***

Bush turned from the window as the door banged open and Anna returned, her young brother Jack running ahead of her with a walnut case held tightly under one arm. The boy was smiling delightedly.

“Here it is, Mr Bush!” He set down the case on the window ledge and opened it carefully. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.” Bush took the proffered telescope, impressed by its workmanship. It was an expensive, exquisitely made piece, which made his own old but perfectly serviceable glass look decidedly shabby.

“It was a Christmas present from Grandpapa,” Jack declared proudly.

“My mother’s family are landed gentry,” Anna explained in reply to Bush’s quizzical glance. He decided to leave the questions that statement brought to mind for another time. Instead he leaned over and opened the window, raising the telescope to his eye.

Jack was practically bouncing up and down at his shoulder. “What can you see?”

Bush found himself frowning again. He could clearly make out the tower through the glass: as he watched, a light flickered on the top storey, at one of the windows. After a few moments, the light moved, then again.

“There’s someone at the top of the tower,” he said.

Anna came over to the window. “How could that be? It’s so dangerous!”

He offered her the telescope. “Take a look for yourself.”

She did, exclaiming in surprise, “So there is! What could they be doing?”

“Something evidently worth the risk of the building collapsing,” muttered Bush.

Jack had the glass now, avidly watching the headland. Even without it Bush could see the flickering of the light as the observer changed position. “Mr Bush!” the boy cried suddenly. “I can see a ship, sir!”

“Where?” Bush was instantly on his feet, craning out of the window.

“Over there, past the headland!” Jack passed him the glass.

With trembling fingers, Bush raised it to his eye – there, sure enough, sails were visible, just beyond the mouth of the bay.

***

“You understand, Mr Prowse?”

Prowse did not look happy, but he nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“If we do not return by the second dog watch, you are to sail to Portsmouth and deliver that report to Admiral Pellew,” Hornblower said, reiterating the directions he had given only five minutes before.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Prowse reluctantly.

“You have the ship, Mr Prowse – look after her.” Horatio swung himself over the side of the Hotspur, down to the boat where Orrock, Matthews and Styles were waiting. The sergeant of marines had been surprised when informed that his men would not be required – Hornblower knew that the venture may very well be risky, but it would not do to be seen landing armed soldiers on an English beach, even if the soldiers in question were British themselves. The last thing he wanted to do was to spread unnecessary panic.

“Where’re we goin’, sir?” Styles asked as he and Matthews took the oars.

“To the top of the tower, Styles,” Hornblower replied. “That’s where the answers lie.”

***

“I’m going over there.” Bush was halfway to the door, wobbling only slightly as he walked.

Anna caught him before he could leave the room. “You can’t,” she said, concern in her eyes. “You are still weak – you would never be able to make it that far.”

“Nevertheless, I have to.” He gently removed her hand from his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“The tower is over two miles away by road. You cannot cut across country.”

“Then surely your father has a horse I may borrow.”

She looked at him helplessly. “I cannot allow it!”

“Miss Maitland, you cannot stop me,” Bush told her softly. “I must find out what is happening.”

“Then let me come with you,” she said impulsively.

“Certainly not! This will be no affair for a lady - ”

Anna drew herself up to her full height – Bush was not a tall man, and she stood barely two inches less. She looked him in the eye. “ You may not have noticed, sir, but I am no dainty, cosseted woman who faints at the mere sight of blood. I can handle a pistol. I need no chivalry, I assure you.”

For a long moment there was stalemate. Neither of them had any intention of giving in to the other.

Finally, Jack’s voice piped up, “There is a quicker way to the tower.”

Anna and Bush looked at him, forgetting the argument for a moment.

“How?” Anna asked her brother.

Jack was wearing a decidedly wolfish smile. “Let me come too, and I’ll show you.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED…


	7. Part Seven

“Go back to the house, Jack! If Pa knew - ”

“If I have to go back, then so do you,” Jack countered. “This isn’t a job for girls, is it, Mr Bush?”

Anna looked appealingly at Bush. “Send him back – you are the only one he’ll listen to!”

Bush was in a quandary. It had not been his intention to make for the tower with a woman and her thirteen-year-old brother in tow. If his suspicions about the watcher were correct, then they would be both a liability and a distraction. Unfortunately, he couldn’t very well bawl at them and order them back to the house – neither of them would agree to go. Jack would not return, Anna would not leave Jack, and without Jack Bush would not be able to reach the tower at all. They had come halfway down the cliff path and already he was tiring – he would never be able to get to the building any other way.

“You should both go back,” he said, knowing as he said the words that it was futile.

They both looked at him, chins set obstinately.

“Certainly not,” said Anna.

“Miss Maitland, I cannot be responsible for your safety!” Bush cried, exasperated.

“And I will not let you go alone,” she retorted.

He rolled his eyes. “I have been at sea for twenty years,” he said, “I am well able to look after myself.”

“I think that your sensibilities are offended by the thought of a woman offering assistance,” said Anna, raising an eyebrow.

Bush checked the pistol stuck into his belt, deciding not to answer. Mr Maitland’s study had been raided for weapons, turning up not only the pistols but also a well-kept sword, which was now swinging at Bush’s hip. He had been reluctant to accept them, but there was no question of entering the tower defenceless, and his own weapons were back on the Hotspur, out of reach.

“If you must insist on accompanying me,” he told Anna firmly, “you will do as I say and stay out of the way. I will not see either of you harmed. Understood?”

She looked reluctant, but nodded. “Very well, Mr Bush.”

Jack went dashing past them down the path. “It’s this way!” he declared, racing off across the sand.

“Jack, come back!” Anna shouted after him. The boy ignored her.

“Mr Maitland! Here, sir! At once!” Bush bellowed, startling Anna but having the desired effect on the lad.

Jack almost skidded to a halt. Slowly, he turned, and came trotting back towards them.

“What did I say?” Bush asked, his professional mask slipping instantly into place. “I will not have you putting yourself in danger, is that clear?”

Jack nodded, looking at his feet. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Stay back, and look after your sister. That’s an order.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Bush tried not to smile, recalling another eager young man, barely older than Jack, desperate to go to sea. That had been so long ago, now… “Very well. Show me this tunnel.”

Anna was shaking her head in astonishment. “I am impressed,” she said, “Even Pa cannot handle Jack like that.”

They made their way down to the beach. Above them, on the cliff top, the tower loomed. Jack waited at the mouth of a cave Bush hadn’t even noticed before, waving to them.

Bush turned to Anna. “I take it you still refuse to stay here?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Then on your own head be it.”

He heard the sound of a pistol being cocked behind him and turned to see Anna holding the matching pair to the gun he himself was carrying. There was a determined look on her face.

“My father taught me to shoot, Mr Bush,” she said, “Just like you, I can look after myself.”

Bush stared at her in surprise. She held the gun like a man. “I can believe it,” he told her. He had never met a woman who could handle a firearm before. It was rather disconcerting – he couldn’t imagine any of his sisters having any idea what to with a gun, even Charlotte, who had once tried to run away to sea after him.

Jack made to lead the way into the tunnel, but Bush stopped him. It climbed up through the rock, rough-hewn stairs in the cliff. It was hard going, the steps steep – Bush was exhausted before he’d gone ten yards. By the time they reached the top, the breath was whooping out of him. He leaned against the rocky wall, tipping his head back and letting his eyes drop shut. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all.

A touch on his arm startled him. He opened his eyes to see Anna peering anxiously at him in the dim light.

“Are you all right, Mr Bush?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, embarrassed at having been seen to give in to weakness. His battered body was complaining, reminding him that it had been barley a week since he had been washed up on the beach.

“This is it, sir,” whispered Jack, all obedience now. He was crouching at the exit to the tunnel, behind a rocky outcrop. Before them stretched a darkened room – Bush cursed himself for not thinking to bring a lantern.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Under the tower, sir – the tunnel comes out into the cellars. It was used by the free-traders until the revenue men got wind of it,” Jack explained. He groped around in the darkness. “There should be candles here somewhere…” A moment later there was the sound of a match being struck, and Jack’s face loomed out of the black at them, ghoulishly lit from below.

“Jack, how did you find this tunnel?” Anna asked. “I had no inkling that it was here.”

“I found it,” came the swift reply.

She gave him a stern look. “You know that you are forbidden to come anywhere near the tower. If Pa knew - ”

“Pa already knows about the tunnel.” Jack looked uncomfortable. “I…heard Pa and Doctor Lambert talking about it.”

“So you decided to find it for yourself,” said Bush.

Jack nodded. “They don’t know that I know about it.”

“Why should Pa be talking about a secret tunnel?” Anna wondered. She looked at Bush. “Exactly what are you expecting to find?”

He hesitated for a moment. By her own adage, Anna was not a woman to be easily frightened. “The French, Miss Maitland.”

 

***

“There is a ship at the mouth of the bay.” Richard Maitland turned as the door slammed open behind him.

Doctor Lambert stood there, expression anxious. “One of ours?”

“They would never risk coming so close in daylight.” Maitland shook his head. “It is a Royal Navy sloop. Twenty guns.”

Lambert blinked. “Richard, we could be undone. All our planning…if they have come looking for the lieutenant - ”

“Nonsense, Tony. How could anyone possibly have known he was here?”

“News spreads fast in such a small community. And your letters to the Admiralty - ”

“Are still here, locked in my desk. A few days more will make no difference to Lieutenant Bush’s resurrection.”

Lambert stepped up to his friend’s side. “Richard, if we are discovered, we will be hanged.”

Maitland nodded, but said, “We have come too far to be concerned with such matters. We knew the risks.”

“All the same, your house guest could be the ruin of us all.”

“The man can barely leave his bed unaided – the turn of a key will keep him safe tonight. One of your sleeping draughts and he will be none the wiser.” Maitland strode from the room, towards his study. “We must make our preparations.”

“Of course.” Lambert followed, his nervousness apparent in his voice. “The rendezvous is for tonight?”

“Yes. Though I would be happier had that damned sloop not appeared. It is blocking any entrance to the cove – our people may decide the risk is too great to attempt a landing.” Maitland took a key from the pocket of his waistcoat – as he put it into the lock of a small cupboard, he was surprised to find that the door swung open unaided. “What the Devil - ?”

“Is something wrong?”

The cupboard, where Maitland kept sword and pistols out of reach of his young sons, was almost empty. “Damn me. My pistols are missing! Aye, and my sword!”

Lambert stared, astonished. “Who would have taken them?”

It suddenly occurred to Maitland that he had seen nothing of Anna since his return. She alone knew the location of the weapons. He pushed past Lambert and headed up the stairs. By the time he entered the room under the eaves, and saw the telescope lying on the ledge below the open window, he knew exactly what had happened.

“Good God!” Lambert had discovered the empty bed, and had also, it seemed, underestimated his patient’s seaman’s constitution.

“I suggest we make haste, Tony,” Maitland growled, “It would appear that Lieutenant Bush is far more recovered than we thought.”

 

***

“Quietly, there! Don’t pull the boat right up onto the shore, Styles, we may need to leave in a hurry.”

Hornblower wished that they were making the reconnoitre under the cover of darkness, but if he waited for dusk the watcher in the tower may have flown.

They had rowed the jollyboat around the headland into the next cove, pulling it up out of sight. Though they must have been observed leaving the Hotspur, the beach on which they had landed could not be seen from the tower. Provided with civilian clothes (though it had been difficult to disguise Styles due to his size) from the chest Bush had dubbed ‘the Captain’s dressing-up box’, they would try to attract as little attention as possible.

Matthews was looking up at the tower, shielding his eyes with one hand. “ How do we get up there, sir?”

“The cliff path. We will approach the tower from the rear, and take them by surprise,” Hornblower said.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but won’t they see us coming?”

“Possibly. The ruins will give us some cover.” Hornblower checked his pistols. “Now, quietly, all of you, and do your best to look like fishermen. Especially you, Styles.”

Even with a bright, knotted neckerchief and moleskin waistcoat, there was no disguising the big man’s white duck trousers and slop-chest shirt. “I’ll do me best, sir,” Styles said, pulling his felt hat low over his face.

“Good. Come on.”

***

The flickering light from the candle threw grotesque shadows over the walls as Bush cautiously climbed the stairs.

He had left Anna and Jack in the cellar, at the entrance to the tunnel, with instructions to fetch help if he should not return within fifteen minutes. Anna had wanted to accompany him, but on this occasion Bush was adamant. She would remain behind. Reluctantly, she agreed, though she told him that if she heard anything at all that sounded suspicious she would follow him whether he liked it or not.

The stairs wound upwards in a spiral, treacherous crumbling steps barely wide enough for Bush’s foot. More than once he slipped, desperately grabbing the fraying rope which served as a handhold.  
  
He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected to find at the top – one lone watcher, or enough to make things difficult for him?

The top of the staircase was in sight – he paused for a moment, listening. For some time he heard nothing. Then, from the other side of the decaying door ahead of him, a voice called out. Although he neither spoke nor understood it, Bush recognised French when he heard it, especially after those weeks spent in close quarters with Major Côtard. He took a firm grip on the pistol, and crept up the last few steps.

The door at the top was ajar – gently, he gave it a push, hoping that it wouldn’t creak. Surprisingly, the door made no sound – someone must have oiled it recently so as not to draw attention to their presence.

From his position in the doorway, Bush could finally see the man with the telescope: a short, unexceptional figure in an unremarkable brown coat was perched on a stool, glass trained on the bay. He was making notes in a journal set out in front of him, and didn’t appear to have noticed that the door had opened.

As quietly as possible, Bush tiptoed into the room. The floor was uneven, the boards rotting and disturbed by the ivy which seemed to be engulfing the room. Greenery was creeping in through every crack, looking like something from a fairytale. Very carefully, he rested the pistol against the back of the Frenchman’s head.

The man froze.

Bush cocked the pistol, the click loud in the small room. “Right, Monsieur le Frog,” he hissed, “I think you’ve seen enough.”

***

“There’s someone else up there, sir,” said Styles.

Hornblower struggled to see – from his hiding place behind an overgrown lilac bush, all he could make out were two figures at the window, shadowy in the evening sunlight.

“Shouldn’t be difficult,” Orrock said, “We outnumber them two to one.”

“As long as there’s only the two of ‘em, sir,” Matthews pointed out.

Slowly, Hornblower slipped out of the cover of the lilac. “Come on. Let’s find out how many there are.”

***

Bush kept the man at gunpoint while he examined the little makeshift table under the window. Though he didn’t understand the scribblings, he could see that the time had been repeatedly noted, comments made alongside.

The man was babbling away in French – if he could speak English he seemed to have conveniently forgotten it. What the Devil was he watching for? There was little enough in the way of naval activity in this area. And the French would hardly be observing fishing smacks or packet boats. It would be helpful to have someone who could translate – Bush had long since considered himself too old to learn another language, especially French, though he would have given anything to know what Côtard had been saying about him.

“What’re you doing here?” he demanded again.

He Frenchman waved his hands and began jabbering once more. Bush prodded him in the ribs with the pistol.

“English, damn it! Don’t you speak English?”

The man shook his head, saying something else.

Bush barely had the chance to think that if the man spoke no English, how could he understand the question, before something smashed him across the back of the head and everything went black.

***

The pistol clattered to the floor, the impact knocking the trigger. The report reverberated through the building.

***

“What the bloody hell was that?” Styles exclaimed as a flock of seagulls burst from the roof of the tower, wheeling startled into the sky.

Hornblower was already past him, heading for the stairs.

***

Below, the shot was muffled, but recognisable.

Anna was moving before she realised it, pistol at the ready.

“Anna! Where’re you going?” Jack shouted after her.

“Go and fetch Pa!” she called over her shoulder. “Quickly!”

He didn’t argue, turning tail and disappearing into the darkness of the tunnel. Anna crept lightly up the stairs, skirts gathered in one hand.

AS she reached the ground floor of the tower, she pulled back, into the shadows as four running figures clattered past her. She could make out little in the dim light, but she didn’t miss the weapons they all brandished. Who were they? She had no way of knowing.

***

Hornblower hurried up the stairs.

At the top, a battered door hung half off its hinges. He pushed it aside, slowly.

“Careful, sir,” Matthews muttered from behind.

The door swung inwards, revealing a room fast becoming choked with greenery. It appeared to be empty, but Hornblower knew from experience that appearances could be deceptive.

“Spread out,” he ordered, stepping over the threshold. “And keep your wits about you.”

He headed for the table under the window. The telescope and the journal told him all he needed to know – from here the Hotspur could be clearly seen at the mouth of the bay.

He was examining the book, trying to put his limited French to some use in order to understand the notes, when Styles called urgently from the other side of the room.

“Sir!”

“What is it, Styles?”

“I think you’d better come and see for yerself, sir,” Styles said mysteriously.

Puzzled, Hornblower crossed the room to find the big man bending over a crumpled figure in the corner. As Styles moved aside, he found himself staring in astonishment. The man Styles had found was unconscious, had evidently been hit over the head, and he was wearing the familiar cream waistcoat and blue trousers of the Royal Navy, but that wasn’t what had startled Hornblower.

He could barely believe what he was seeing – he would recognise the handsome, angular face anywhere.

He had never expected to see it again.

Styles glanced round at him – he saw an echo of his own amazement in the big man’s face.

“It’s Mr Bush, sir!”

 

TO BE CONTINUED….


	8. Part Eight

Anna could hear the footsteps on the stairs.

Two sets, one hesitant. Not the men who had raced past her minutes before, then. As they approached she could make out a whispered conversation, one man taking the lead, the other murmuring acquiescence.

“Nous devons partir! Ils ont trouvé l'autre Anglais - ils viendront après nous! Nos plans seront défaits!”*

So Mr Bush had found them. Anna’s heart clenched, remembering the shot. If they had harmed him…

She took a firmer grip on the pistol, and stepped out into the narrow stairway. The two men, dishevelled, one leaning on the other and holding his left arm awkwardly, stared at her in amazement.

Anna levelled the pistol. “Halte!” she ordered. “Que faites-vous ici?”**

***

“I don’t believe it.”

Hornblower stared at the crumpled body in the corner. For more than a week, he had given Bush up for lost, had been convincing himself that he would never see his friend again, blaming himself, and now…warring emotions within him struggled for the upper hand, tearing him between relief and astonishment that Bush had survived the storm, concern for his present condition and intense curiosity about his presence in the tower.

Trying to ignore them all, he bent down beside his first lieutenant. “Mr Bush? William, can you hear me?”

Bush had evidently been hit hard, and from behind – there was blood trickling down one side of his face. Hornblower found a handkerchief in his pocket and pressed it firmly to the wound, trying to staunch the flow.

After a moment or two, Bush groaned and stirred. He blinked up at Hornblower in surprise, eyes unfocussed. “…sir?”

“Indeed, Mr Bush. I’m very glad to see you again.” Hornblower fought to keep the feeling of relief that was flooding through him under control. He settled his features into what he hoped was an impassive professional expression.

“Sir…” Bush was trying to sit up – Styles slid an arm under his shoulders and helped him. “Did you get them, sir?”

“Get whom?” Hornblower asked confused.

Bush’s eyes widened in alarm. “The Frogs – there were two of them. They hit me - ”

In a sudden flash, Hornblower recalled the figures at the window. He had all but forgotten their objective in that moment of amazement at finding Bush alive.

“No one here, sir,” Matthews reported, returning from the other room with Orrock. “There’s another staircase, though - ” He broke off, staring at Bush. “Mr Bush, sir! I - ”

“Get downstairs, both of you,” Hornblower ordered, refraining from comment on his first lieutenant’s miraculous resurrection. “There are two Frenchmen here somewhere.”

“They can’t have got far, sir – there’s fresh blood on the floorboards,” said Orrock.

“Find them, but be careful.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The two vanished through the doorway, weapons at the ready.

“What in the world are you doing here, sir?” Bush asked, puzzlement plain on his face.

“I could ask you the same question, Mr Bush.” Hornblower removed the handkerchief and examined Bush’s wound – it was a gash, some two inches long, and would need attention. There was no time for that, however.

“I saw the light – the telescope, sir.”

“As did we. It appears we arrived not a moment too soon.”

“They’ve been spying, sir, that much is clear.”

“Indeed, but spying upon what, exactly?”

“Let me get after ‘em, sir – I’ll find out for yer,” said Styles grimly.

“Thank you, Styles, but I detect one vital flaw in that plan – you speak no French,” Hornblower told him, trying not to smile. “I think - ”

He was cut off, as at that moment a shot rang out from below, quickly followed by another. A scream and a startled yell of pain echoed in the resulting silence. Raised voices floated up the stairs - Hornblower and Bush looked at each other.

“Matthews!”

“Anna!” Bush struggled to rise. “Dear God, I told her to stay behind!”

Hornblower was already at the door – he glanced over his shoulder in surprise. “There is a woman here?”

Styles hauled Bush to his feet, letting the dazed lieutenant lean on him. “She must be a right fire-eater, sir.”

“She will get herself killed,” Bush said in consternation. “Damn it! Why will women never listen?”

“That’s a question ain’t got no answer, sir.”

“I have to get down there.” Bush tried to run for the door, but only succeeded in nearly keeling over. Styles caught him. “Thank you, Styles. Sir, I - ”

“Stay here,” said Hornblower, and added as Bush began to protest, “That’s an order, Mr Bush. Styles, look after him.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Be careful, sir.”

Hornblower nodded, and, drawing his pistol, made his way down the stairs.

***

Anna kept the pistol trained on the two Frenchmen.

The unharmed man was particularly garrulous, though disinclined to reveal the true reason for his presence in the tower. Anna had her suspicions, had done ever since she had learned that Mr Bush expected to find the French there. No doubt he had believed them to be spies, or the vanguard for an invasion force – if Anna’s conclusions were correct, they were there for a different reason altogether.

“Qui vous a envoyé ici? Avec qui êtes-vous en contact?” she demanded. ***

The man shook his head.

Anna decided to try a different tack. “Identifiez-vous le Maitland nommé? Travaillez-vous pour un Richard Maitland?”****

***

Matthews pulled up short on the stairs. “Bloody hell, sir, there’s a woman down there!” he hissed.

Orrock listened. “A Frenchwoman, too.”

“There’s a whole bloody nest of ‘em!”

***

The unharmed man was getting angry now, gesturing and shouting, protesting that he had done nothing wrong.

The mention of her father’s name had roused the fury in him, Anna was sure. Pa was behind all this, somewhere. Her heart quickened – after so long, she had hardly dared to hope that all their plans might actually come to fruition.

***

“I can see ‘em, sir.” Matthews leaned against the wall, wedged into the tight turn of the staircase.

“What’re they doing?” Orrock whispered.

“The Frog’s mighty angry, sir – he’s -” Matthews suddenly broke off, swiftly bringing up his pistol to bear. The report as it went off was deafening in the confined space. From below another shot exploded almost at the same moment – there was a yell, and a scream, and then silence.

***

Hornblower hurried down the stairs, to be confronted by a scene of confusion.

Matthews and Orrock were struggling with a wildly gesticulating Frenchman, trying to relieve him of the pistol he was holding. Blood was seeping through one leg of the man’s worsted breeches, though he seemed to be paying it little heed. Slumped on the lower stairs was another man, cradling his left arm but evidently going nowhere.

Hornblower’s attention was drawn to the other member of the bizarre tableau – a pretty blonde woman was leaning against the wall of the staircase, her face creased in pain. She held one hand to her shoulder, where blood was bubbling up between her fingers, soaking the sleeve of her dress. A pistol hung limply from her free hand.

Before Hornblower could offer any assistance, or demand to know what was happening, and shout rang out from the foot of the stairs, startling everyone:

“What in God’s name is going on here?”

***

“What the devil is happening down there?”

Bush started up as the door slammed open.

A strange assortment of people burst into the room – he barely took in any of them. Hornblower was supporting a wilting figure in a mobcap and bloodstained dimity dress.

Bush stumbled towards them. “Anna! Good God – what happened?”

Hornblower lowered Anna into the only chair – she was barely conscious. “It looks worse that it is – the bullet grazed her shoulder.” He turned to the others. “Put them over there – and keep a close guard on them.”

Orrock and Matthews herded the prisoners into a corner. Bush recognised the Frenchman from the window, and guessed the other dishevelled figure to be the one who had struck him, but he blinked in surprise when he realised that the other members of the party were Richard Maitland and Doctor Lambert.

“Sir, I don’t understand,” he said, “These gentlemen helped me. If it weren’t for them I would be dead!”

“Indeed?” Hornblower fixed Maitland with a stony gaze. “In that case, Mr Bush, perhaps they would like to explain why they have been helping the French to spy upon our ships.”

 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *We must leave! They have found the Englishman - they will come after us! Our plans will be undone!
> 
> ** Halt! What are you doing here?
> 
> *** Who sent you? For whom are you working?
> 
> **** Do you recognise the name Maitland? Are you working for Richard Maitland?


	9. Part Nine

“Well, Mr Maitland? I’m waiting.”

Hornblower leaned against the table, leafing through the journal. Even with his limited knowledge of the language, he could gather that the French lookout had been recording ship movements over some considerable time – probably since the resumption of the war.

“I have nothing to say to a bunch of brigands,” Maitland said.

“Brigands? Sir, I am an officer of the King – I demand to know what has been happening here!” Hornblower strode across the room, the journal in his hand. “You, sir, have been conspiring with the enemy.”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“No, he has not,” Anna said weakly, making everyone turn to her. She was limp in the chair – Hornblower had allowed Doctor Lambert to treat the wounded, though there was little he could do without proper equipment. Bush was hovering at Anna’s side, watching her anxiously.

“Anna, you do not have to tell this man anything. We have only his word that he is in the service of the King,” her father told her. “He could be anyone – there is no proof to his claims.”

“Would you doubt my word, sir?” Bush asked quietly. “That man is Captain Horatio Hornblower, commander of HMS Hotspur. He is everything he claims to be.”

Maitland looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing. Anna turned her eyes earnestly to Hornblower. “He is telling the truth, Mr Hornblower. We have not been conspiring. Any Frenchmen you may find here are not the enemy.”

Hornblower frowned. “Please explain, Miss Maitland.”

“My mother is a Frenchwoman,” Anna said. Her voice was faint but steady. “For a long time, we lived in France – I was born there. Our family were forced to flee during the Revolution – my uncle lost his head to Madame Guillotine. We escaped, but my mother was left behind, forced into hiding. For nearly ten years, my father has been doing all he can to find her and bring her safely to England.”

“And finally you know your mother’s whereabouts?” Bush asked.

She nodded, and reached out a hand to him. He took it, squeezing it gently. “Pa told me some time ago that he knew where she was, that he was waiting for the right time to bring her out of France. It has been so difficult, with the blockades…”

“And who exactly are your allies, Mr Maitland?” said Hornblower, still unconvinced. It was a plausible story, but…

“The partisans,” Maitland replied, evidently seeing no reason to hold back now that his daughter had laid bare the truth. “I have contacts, family connections still in France. Communication is difficult, but there are ways.”

“Smugglers,” said Bush.

“Their assistance is invaluable.”

“Provided you keep them away from the revenue and the noose. That was why you stopped using this tower, wasn’t it? The authorities sniffing around…it would have exposed your plans as well as theirs.”

Maitland nodded. “Very perceptive, Mr Bush. I made the mistake of underestimating you.”

Hornblower glanced at Bush. “It is a mistake few make a second time, sir.” He looked at the journal again. “You have been observing the bay more keenly in the last week, I notice. Why is that?”

Maitland looked at Lambert, who nodded. “You had better tell them, Richard.”

The big man sighed. “We are expecting a rendezvous, a boat from France. Tonight.”

“Pa?” Anna tried to sit straighter – Bush helped her, allowing her to lean against him. “Do you mean that Mama - ”

“Yes, Anna.” Maitland smiled. “You mother is finally coming home.”

***

“I’m not sure about this, sir.”

“Neither am I, William.” Hornblower chewed on his knuckles as he stood looking out of the window. They had repaired to the house, Matthews, Styles and Orrock keeping the prisoners under guard. Once it became clear that there were few weapons in the house, and those confiscated, the Frenchmen had been locked in the cellar, Maitland and Lambert confined to the study, while Hornblower debated his next move. “I find it very unlikely that any ship leaving France could avoid the blockade, even a smugglers’ vessel.”

“You believe Maitland is lying, sir?”

Hornblower turned. “What else am I to think? The story about the girl’s mother - ”

“Sir, may I speak plainly?” Bush asked, interrupting him.

“Of course.”

“I don’t believe Anna Maitland to be a liar, sir, whatever you may think.”

“Hmm.” Hornblower regarded his first lieutenant. Bush sat slumped in a chair by the fireplace, plainly exhausted but determined not to give in to it. A white bandage wound round his head – he should have been resting, but Hornblower knew how stubborn Bush could be. Even dropping from fatigue or blood loss, Bush would still insist that he was all right. “William, is there something I should know regarding yourself and Miss Maitland?” Hornblower asked, remembering the way Bush had reacted when he brought the wounded Anna into the tower room.

“Only that she looked after me, and I am grateful to her,” Bush replied. A strange look came over his face, one Hornblower could not recall ever seeing before – it was softer, warmer, than the mask Bush habitually wore. “She found me on the beach, Horatio – I was half dead. She – she nursed me.”

“I see.” Hornblower knew better than to press Bush any further. He decided to change the subject. “We still have a few hours until dusk. I intend to return to Hotspur for a short while – I leave you in charge here in the meantime.”

“Very well, sir. I take it you have a plan?”

“Indeed I do, Mr Bush. Maitland may believe that a French ship is bringing only his wife to him – I do not.”

***

Anna found Bush in the parlour.

She had woken half an hour before to discover that she had been put to bed in her own room. Her shoulder was bandaged, but, though it was extremely painful, she could still move it. It seemed that the bullet had only grazed the skin after all. The house was unnaturally quiet – she opened the door, peering out onto the landing, but there was no sign of anyone. Surely Captain Hornblower would not have taken her father and the others and left? She could not believe that of him – he seemed to be an honourable man, and it was plain that Mr Bush had the utmost respect for him.

Softly, she padded down the stairs. The parlour door stood ajar – she pushed gently on it, and it swung inwards, revealing a figure in the big armchair by the fireplace. A smile touched Anna’s face: Mr Bush sat in the chair, his head resting on one hand, quite obviously asleep. His head was bandaged – in all the confusion, she hadn’t even realised he was hurt, too. His face was drawn, tired, the deep lines carved on either side of his mouth more pronounced despite the dim light in the room.

Anna went to the chair on the opposite side of the fire, careful to avoid the floorboards she knew squeaked. It was quite clear that he needed the rest – she had no intention of waking him. She was content to watch him sleep, as she had done so many times in the past few days.

Curled up in the chair, despite the burning ache in her shoulder, it wasn’t long before Anna fell asleep herself.

***

“I take it the orders are quite clear, Mr Prowse?”

Prowse nodded, his usual gloomy expression on his face. “Aye, sir. We retire beyond the mouth of the bay.”

“You will keep a watch for any vessel approaching the area, and signal the shore using two red lanterns. They must be extinguished the moment the signal is acknowledged,” Hornblower stressed. “The very moment. There must be no cause for suspicion. I will take a contingent of marines, and some of the hands. Until Mr Bush and I return, you have charge of the ship once more.”

There was a moment’s pause as Prowse digested this information. Then, slowly, something very unusual happened – his eyebrows rose, his mouth opened, and Mr Prowse looked surprised. “Did you just say ‘Mr Bush’, sir?”

Hornblower glanced over his shoulder, trying to hide the smile that was playing around his lips. “Indeed, Mr Prowse. Reports of Mr Bush’s death were greatly exaggerated.” He turned and swung himself through the entry port, leaving Prowse gobbling in amazement behind him.

***

Wakefulness slowly stole over Bush.

He groaned, and opened his eyes. His head hurt like the devil, a pounding ache that seemed to be everywhere at once. He lifted it, feeling the uncomfortable crick in his neck as he did, and immediately wished he hadn’t. A moan of pain escaped him, loud in the silent room.

It had grown dark around him – with a start, he wondered what time it was. How long had he been asleep? Groggily, he pulled himself out of the chair, looking around for a candle.

“On the mantelpiece,” a voice said, startling him.

Bush was already groping blindly amongst the litter of pipes and china on the mantelshelf before he realised who had spoken. He squinted into the gloom. “Anna?”

He could just make out a shape shifting in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. Finally finding a plain silver holder, he discovered his tinderbox in a pocket and lit the candle. The flickering light revealed Anna, wrapped in a blanket, curled up in the chair. “What’re you doing here? You should be in bed - ”

“I wanted to know what was happening. Mr Hornblower doesn’t believe my father, does he?”

Bush was reluctant to discuss Hornblower’s plans with Anna, though he knew little enough of them himself. “He thinks that there may be more happening than you realise.”

“My father is not a traitor, Mr Bush.”

“I want to believe that.”

She watched him as he put the candle down on the table beside her chair. “Do you think me a traitor, William?”

Bush stopped, and turned his head to look at her. Fire exploded across his brain again, but he tried to ignore it. She had never called him by his Christian name before. Her eyes were luminous in the candlelight, wide and earnest. As she moved, her hair caught the light, shining like a new-minted guinea. He wanted so desperately to believe her…”I don’t know what to think,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Being half-French does not make me a traitor.”

“I never thought it did.” Bush thought of Major Côtard, and the mistakes that had been made by jumping to conclusions.

Anna smiled slightly. “You were suspicious. I can’t blame you for that – I should have told you, but it didn’t seem important. Mama’s return seemed so far away as to be a dream.”

“You must miss her terribly.” Bush’s own mother had died over two years ago – he had been bound for Kingston on the Renown at the time, and did not receive the news until six months later. He still missed her.

“Every day. And the boys… Sammy was just a babe in arms when we fled France. He never knew her – to Jack she is no more than a shadowy figure, half remembered in that moment between sleeping and waking. She isn’t real to them.”

Bush nodded. “I understand.” He had been fortunate with his family, he knew – though humble, the cottage in Chichester had always been full of laughter. As the only boy, he had been spoilt by his mother and sisters, taking their love for granted. His father had wholeheartedly supported his decision to join the Navy – the proudest moment for William Bush senior had been to see his son enter the house in his Lieutenant’s uniform, an officer and a gentleman. Bush was grateful that neither of his parents had lived to hear the rumours that abounded after Samana Bay, to suffer the agony of knowing he was on trial for mutiny.

“You must promise me something, William,” Anna said now, reaching out to grasp his hand.

“Anna…”

“Promise me that you will not allow Mr Hornblower to prevent the ship landing its cargo.”

“Anna, I can’t…” Her fingers were soft against his calloused skin, her thumb lightly stroking his palm.

She gazed up at him with tear-bright eyes. When she spoke her voice was no more than a whisper. “Promise me, William. Please.”

Bush looked into those eyes, and was lost. He raised her hand to his lips. “I promise.”

 

To be continued….


	10. Part Ten

“Mr Bush.”

Bush started – he had not even heard the door open behind him. Hornblower stood on the threshold, a strange expression on his face. Bush felt himself colour, and was glad of the dim light. He let go of Anna’s hand, straightening to attention. “Sir.”

“Time to leave.”

Anna started up out of her chair. “I am coming with you.”

“No, Miss Maitland, you are not,” Hornblower said firmly. “You will remain here, where it is safe.”

“Mr Hornblower, I have seen much danger in my time. You are not looking at a woman who faints at the first sight of blood.” Anna looked to Bush for back up, but he shook his head.

“A battle is no place for a woman.”

“There will be no battle! My father - ”

“Until I have reason to believe otherwise, I still view this rendezvous as a potential threat to England,” said Hornblower. “I cannot be responsible for your safety should we see action.”

Anna glared at him. “You will not even give him the benefit of the doubt!”

“Madam, I have no knowledge of your father, or where his loyalties may lie! I have my duty – I cannot take that chance. Come, Mr Bush.”

Bush met Anna’s eyes for a moment. “May I join you outside, sir?”

Hornblower glanced at them both – after a second or two, he nodded. “Very well. Two minutes.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bush took the sword and pistol Hornblower handed him, glad to have his own weapons once more. Maitland’s sword, its weight suited to a much larger man than Bush, would have been cumbersome in a fight. He checked the pistol, and thrust it into his belt – as he did, he felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see Anna at his side, her eyes earnest.

“Remember your promise,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I will bring your mother to you, never fear.”

She smiled, lifting a hand to gently stroke his hair. “I knew I could count on my brave sailor.”

“Anna, please - ” Bush felt himself flush again as she leaned in close and put a slim finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I trust you,” she whispered, and, lifting her finger, brushed his lips with hers. Her eyes were shining now as she pulled away, full of hope. “Now, Mr Bush, go and do your duty.”

 

***

Hornblower surveyed the men gathered outside Whitethorn House.

“Styles, you will remain here to guard the prisoners – I will leave Cartwright, Turner and Drew with you. Mr Maitland, Doctor Lambert, you will come with us.”

“I protest, Mr Hornblower,” Lambert said heatedly, “I have wounded men here who need attention, not to mention Miss Maitland, who sustained a nasty injury earlier.”

Recalling his conversation with Anna a few minutes before, Hornblower replied, “She seems quite well enough to me.”

“There is a risk of infection, particularly to those men whom you have so thoughtlessly kept in the cellar,” snapped Lambert. “I must be allowed to treat them!”

“Those men are currently under suspicion for spying.”

“Suspicion only, sir,” said Maitland. “Would you have them die before you lean the truth? Their deaths will be on your head.”

“I am aware of that, sir.” Hornblower told him, nettled. “And may I remind you that you and the doctor here are also still under suspicion? Styles - ” He waved the big man to his side, continued quietly, “Keep a close watch on Doctor Lambert. See that he does not leave the house.”

Styles nodded. “Aye aye, sir.”

“Doctor Lambert, you may remain. Mr Maitland will still accompany us to the shore,” said Hornblower, raising his voice once more. Behind him, the door of the house suddenly opened – he turned to see Bush emerge into the moonlight, straightening his collar. “Ah, Mr Bush. Good of you to join us.”

“My apologies, sir.” Bush stood to attention, face expressionless. Hornblower could guess what had been happening. He had never before thought to see Bush’s head turned by a woman – he had not heard his friend even mention one, other than his sisters. Though he supposed there must have been women in Bush’s life, Bush had never spoken of them, and Hornblower, respectful of his first lieutenant’s privacy, had never asked.

“Very well,” he said now, “Now that we are all here, I suggest we join the marines. Come, gentlemen, and keep your wits about you.”

As they made their way towards the cliff path, Hornblower noticed Bush glance back towards the house. Looking briefly over his own shoulder, he saw for an instant Anna Maitland silhouetted at an upstairs window, before the light was extinguished and she was gone.

***

The waiting was the worst of it.

Bush had always hated the waiting, the anticipation before an action, adrenalin running high with no outlet. While not a particularly impatient man, he could not stand to be idle – at least on board ship he could be inspecting, pacing, giving orders, rather than sitting here and hiding, waiting for the enemy to come to him.

He tapped his fingers restlessly against the hilt of his sword, peering into the darkness. The cloud had thickened, which would work in their favour, though it would be difficult to spot any approaching ships.

“I had thought better of you, sir.” Maitland’s voice was quiet, a bass rumble in Bush’s ear.

Bush turned, trying to hide his surprise. “I have my duty, Mr Maitland. I am grateful to you and your family for your kindness, but I am a King’s officer - ”

“Who follows his captain’s orders blindly, like a dog.” Maitland shook his head. “I had not expected to be repaid in such a fashion.”

“I am in your debt, sir,” Bush said carefully, not entirely sure where Maitland was headed with this reasoning, “but my duty is to my captain and to the King, above anything else.”

“Do you not have an original thought in your head, Mr Bush? What if your captain is wrong? What do you do then?”

“Obey my orders, sir. It has always been my intention to serve my commanding officer to the best of my ability. And I trust the captain. I would not presume to tell him what to do.”

“And so you allow him to make rash judgements and bigoted assumptions, do you?”

“Mr Maitland, you are suggesting mutiny,” Bush said, his voice low and insistent.

“A concept not new to you, I believe. I read the newspapers, Mr Bush. HMS Renown, was it not?”

Had there been sufficient light, Maitland would have seen Bush pale suddenly. “You go to far, sir.”

“My wife is on that ship, sir,” hissed Maitland, thrusting his face close to Bush’s. Bush instinctively backed away, only to find himself up against the cave wall. “I have waited a decade to see her safe. Is all my planning, all the risks I have run, to be set at naught by your captain? Do you have any idea how it will feel to see the woman I have loved for thirty years come so close and yet still be denied to me? Do you?”

Bush met Maitland’s fierce gaze with a level one of his own. “No, sir, I don’t believe I do.”

Maitland stared at him for a long time, as if trying to find something in Bush’s eyes. Bush deliberately revealed nothing, a trick at which he was long practised. “No. You wouldn’t.” Maitland backed away, shoulders hunched, slumped in defeat. “It will be like a dagger through my heart.” He glanced up at Bush. “Would you put Anna through that?”

Bush said nothing. His promise haunted him.

***

“There they are. Two red lights on the larb’d bow.” Hornblower lowered the night glass and gestured to Orrock. “Send the acknowledgement with all speed, Mr Orrock.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Orrock set to his task with his usual enthusiasm, using a lantern to signal Hotspur as arranged. After a moment, the lights were extinguished, the sea plunged once more into darkness.

“Sir. May I speak with you?” Bush had approached without warning, and with unsettling silence on the shingle.

Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, but paused as he heard the unmistakable splash of oars, approaching the shore. “I fear we have no time, Mr Bush. Marines! Make ready!”

“Sir, I must - ”

“No, Mr Bush. Kindly take charge of the hands. Keep them quiet.”

Bush did not move, clearly intent on making his point.

Hornblower swore beneath his breath in frustration. “Very well, William – what is it?”

“I take it that you intend to prevent the boat landing here, sir.”

“That is my intention, yes. Did I not make myself clear?”

“Abundantly, sir. But if the crew are not hostile…?”

“The crew will be in contravention of the law, whether they be Frenchmen or free-traders, Mr Bush.”

“Even so, surely it does not require the presence of the marine guard, sir? One Frenchwoman come home to her children?” Bush asked.

The oars were becoming louder. “Marines – present!” Hornblower hissed, and was answered with the muffled but recognisable sound of muskets being cocked.

“Sir, please – allow the boat to land. Allow Maitland to be reunited with his wife,” Bush said, voice earnest. “Please, sir. Let Anna see her mother. She has been waiting for so long - ”

“No, Mr Bush! I cannot compromise the safety of this country. And neither should you. Is it worth putting England at risk of invasion for a pretty face?” Hornblower snapped.

Bush stiffened. In an instant, his face closed up, that blank, wooden mask that Hornblower remembered all too well from Renown in place. “I owe my life to the Maitlands, sir.”

“And you owe you loyalty to England, Mr Bush. This discussion is at an end. Go and take charge of the hands – the boat is almost upon us.”

“Sir, I - ”

“Damn it, William, I’ve told you before - don’t disobey me!” Hornblower lowered his voice, but it was still full of anger and frustration at Bush’s dogged determination not to let the argument drop. “I suggest you stop now before I have you up on a charge of insubordination.”

“Sir, I made a promise to Miss Maitland.”

“You had no right to do so. Do not make promises you cannot keep.”

There was a stubborn light in Bush’s eyes now. “I intend to keep it.”

“Sir!” Orrock was waving from the shore. “Jollyboat approaching, sir!”

“Please, sir. Let them land,” said Bush.

“You are dismissed, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said coldly. “Return to the house and send Styles to me.” He turned away, exasperated. What the devil had happened to Bush’s sense of duty?

“Sir – Horatio - ”

“Go, Mr Bush! I have no more need of your assistance.”

Finally, the words seemed to sink in. Bush straightened, eyes hard, and saluted. “Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower did not bother to watch him go. He stood up, beyond the cover of the rocks. “The lantern, if you please, Mr Orrock.”

Orrock unshuttered the dark lantern he was holding – in the thin beam of light the jollyboat could be seen, two figures huddled in the stern. “Hold hard there!” Hornblower called. “Come any closer to shore and I will order my men to shoot!”

There was some confused muttering from the boat, but the oarsmen did not stop rowing.

“Halt!” Hornblower shouted, louder this time.

“They cannot understand you, man!” Maitland told him, coming up behind.

“Then you will inform them that I will shoot if they come nearer. And that is all you will tell them, Mr Maitland,” Hornblower added.

The man glared at him. “I hope that you can live with yourself, Mr Hornblower, should you shoot an innocent woman.”

“I have only your word for that, sir. Kindly tell them.”

Maitland climbed to his feet, holding out a hand. He called out something incomprehensible to Hornblower’s vague French. After a moment, an answering voice drifted across from the boat, a voice very distinctively French, and very obviously female.

“Richard? Mon chéri, est que vous?”

Maitland looked at Hornblower, a superior smile playing around his mouth. “Well, sir? Do you believe me now?”

“Sergeant, secure that boat,” Hornblower ordered. “Allow the woman to alight, but take her companions into custody.” He turned to Maitland. “You are not freed from suspicion yet, sir.”

***

Bush trudged back up the cliff path, grinding every step into the earth. Anger flooded through him, directed at Hornblower, but mainly at himself. Only once before had he disobeyed Hornblower, though with the best of intentions, and had vowed never to do so again. So why had he just argued with his commander in a fashion bordering on mutiny?

It was not for Maitland, he knew that, despite the man’s attempts to bully him into challenging Hornblower. He was in the man’s debt, it was true, but he felt little loyalty to him. No, had it merely been Maitland in the equation, Bush would have had no hesitation or difficulty in putting the man down and obeying his captain’s orders.

There was one, more important factor which had turned the tide.

Anna.

Only for her had Bush found himself risking Hornblower’s wrath. He shook his head, trying to alleviate some of the pounding in his skull, the cause of which was now only partially the wound he had sustained. A week ago he would never have considered challenging his captain because of a woman. But then, a week ago he had not met Anna Maitland.

Bush groaned. A week ago life had been uncomplicated. Now he was caught in a cat’s cradle from which he could see no easy escape.

The house was in sight now, for which he was grateful, tired by the walk up the cliff. He frowned as he realised all the windows were in darkness. Surely the occupants would not have retired? Lambert had specifically requested to tend his patients, and what of Anna, and Martha and the boys?

And where the hell was Styles? Other seamen Bush would not have been surprised to find comfortably ensconced in the kitchen with Maitland’s brandy, but Styles, for all his faults, was not one of them. He could be trusted.

Something was very wrong.

Bush crept closer to the house, hand on his sword. The front door stood ajar – alarm bells began ringing at the back of his mind. He pushed the door, wincing as it swung inwards, but it did not creak. The hallway beyond was black as pitch, but Bush’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough for him to make out the shape of the banister rail and the table by the front door. He stepped over the threshold, intending to go upstairs, his first thought for Anna, and stumbled as his foot caught on something on the floor. Grabbing hold of the doorframe to steady himself, he looked down – there was a dark shape in the doorway, a bulky mass that looked vaguely familiar. Bush groped in his pocket for his tinderbox – in the light from the tiny flame, he could see the crumpled body of Styles, sprawled on the threshold. There was blood on the big man’s face – Bush bent, trying to tell whether he was still alive, but it was impossible to judge. He began to rise, intending to venture further into the house, but froze when he felt something cool and metallic press against the base of his skull.

“If I were you, I would not move,” a familiar voice whispered in his ear, “Not if you wish to keep your head.”

 

To be continued….


	11. Part Eleven

“Stand up. Slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Bush’s fingers had automatically gone to the pistol in his belt – a pistol which, he now discovered, was somehow no longer there. He swore silently and straightened, raising his hands. In a moment he was relieved of his sword, his arms forced behind his back and his wrists tightly bound. His injured shoulder screamed at the treatment.

The pressure of the gun on his head was removed as his captor moved to face him. Bush swore again as he made out the man’s features in the moonlight, this time audibly and vehemently.

“Dear me, Mr Bush, such language! I will wager I was the last person you suspected. Am I correct?”

“You are a traitor, sir,” Bush hissed.

Doctor Lambert laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Oh, no, sir,” he said, his voice slipping into a heavy French accent, “I am a loyal citizen of the French Republic. And very soon, so too will you be.”

***

Anna watched, hidden in the complete darkness of the stairwell. The pistol she had taken from Bush was tight in her grip, but there was little she could do – even if she could get a clear shot, Lambert had at least a dozen men, and she ran a risk of hitting William by mistake. She could only crouch there and hope they did not notice her.

“Bring him,” Lambert ordered, and two of the men took hold of Bush, propelling him down the steps. He struggled fiercely, growling in fury, only subsiding when the doctor very slowly and deliberately rested the barrel of his pistol against Bush’s forehead. “I would not advise any heroics, lieutenant,” said Lambert smoothly, the accent he had evidently been concealing for so long turning the once friendly voice into something cruel and unfeeling. “I would prefer to keep you alive, but if you compromise my mission I will have no hesitation in shooting you down. I should not like to distress Anna by killing her pet sailor. Women are so sensitive when it comes to the destruction of dumb animals.”

“You’ll hang, Lambert,” Bush told him, voice tight with anger.

“I admire your optimism, but I fear it is misplaced. Your captain has been perfectly distracted.”

Anna heard no more as the party vanished into the night, boots tramping on the gravel. She waited, until she could be sure they were out of earshot, and then quietly crept down the stairs, feeling on the hall table for a candlestick. Finding one, her foot touched something small and hard on the floor – picking it up, she discovered it to be Bush’s tinderbox, evidently dropped in the scuffle. Anna lit the candle, and crouched over the body of Styles, gently feeling his neck for a pulse as she had seen the doctor do on many occasions. The big man had been fearless, trying with all his might to defend the house, but the French had come from all sides, striking him down from behind as he barred the door to their comrades.

Under Anna’s fingers, a pulse fluttered, then steadied. Styles was still alive. She bent over him, shaking his shoulder. After a moment, she was rewarded with a groan. “Wake up,” she whispered. “I need your help.”

***

Hornblower paced the beach, gnawing on his knuckles.

Beyond him, Maitland and his wife were affecting a touching reunion, Mrs Maitland clinging to her husband as if he were a rock in a storm, murmuring constantly in French. The three men who had accompanied her in the boat seemed harmless – the marines had discovered but two pistols and a sword between them. Hardly an invasion force. Hornblower had tried to demand their names and the identity of their captain, but had been met with blank looks. Despite the fact that the man had evidently been telling the truth about the rendezvous, Hornblower did not trust Maitland to translate.

All seemed innocent enough, but his instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong. Hornblower could smell a rat, he just couldn’t work out where the smell was coming from.

“Mes enfants…the…children,” Mrs Maitland was saying to her husband, “Anna…ma cherie…where is she?”

“Waiting at the house. She will be overjoyed to see you,” Maitland replied. “I take it that we may return to the house now, Mr Hornblower?”

Hornblower was reluctant to abandon the beach with a French ship still anchored somewhere off shore. “Not just yet, Mr Maitland.”

“Good God, man, do you still expect my wife’s friends to be harbouring Boney on board?” Maitland demanded. “That ship is on our side, Mr Hornblower!”

“Would that I could believe it, sir. It will be dawn in less than an hour – we will see how the land lies then.”

“Then at least send to the house and have Anna brought down here. She should not be separated from her mother for a moment longer. One of your men can escort her.”

“Anna is there? Alone?” Mrs Maitland exclaimed. “Ma petite, mon ange…with those sailors?”

“Do not worry, madam,” Hornblower said, adding bitterly, “I have no doubt that my first lieutenant is showing her the greatest care.”

***

“Keep walking, Mr Bush. We do not want to keep your captain waiting now, do we?”

Bush stumbled over a tree root – one of the surly French soldiers grabbed him by the left shoulder and righted him, eliciting a gruff yelp of pain from Bush. “Why did you bother to help me?” he asked through clenched teeth. “You could have just let me die – I was halfway there already.”

“I had no quarrel with you, not until your captain interfered. Above all, I am a doctor, and I do not like to lose patients. I do not like to lose at all. I will admit that I had not anticipated your quick recovery – you have a very strong constitution, Mr Bush. I am impressed,” said Lambert. “It was my intention that you should be safely under lock and key at this moment, in the arms of Morpheus. It would have been better for you .” He prodded Bush in the back with the pistol as he slowed once more, trying not to trip over his own feet in the darkness.

“Stop that, damn it! Do you want me to fall?” Bush demanded.

Lambert sighed. “Sadly, no. You would be of no use to me should you break your neck.”

“Thank you so much,” Bush said, injecting as much sarcasm into his voice as possible. It was treacherous on the cliff path with his hands bound behind him – he could neither retain his balance nor catch himself should he slip. “Just how long have you and Maitland been planning this? It must have taken months of co-ordination.”

“Oh, years, my friend. We have been waiting, watching and plotting since well before the peace. Richard has always been intent on but one thing – being reunited with his wife. He can see nothing beyond that goal. Me, I have always been aware of the bigger picture.”

“And he was content to help you, an Englishman, to assist in this…appalling treachery?”

Lambert glanced at Bush and laughed. “So naïve…you think that all Englishmen are loyal to your Farmer George? You would be surprised, lieutenant. But no, Richard is not aware of my loyalties. It suited me to use him, and he trusted me implicitly. Had I revealed myself, I would have been discovered and arrested within a fortnight. I bided my time, drawing my own plans – I have infinite patience, you see.”

“Dear God.” The scale of the plotting involved was only just becoming plain to Bush. “You’re a spy, aren’t you?”

“I did wonder how long it would take you to reach that conclusion,” Lambert said with a wolfish smile.

***

It was beginning to grow light.

On the quarterdeck of the Hotspur, Mr Prowse regarded the ship moored to the lee of the headland through his glass. Prowse had seen enough French ships in his time to tell a lugger from a sloop of war, even in such gloom. He turned from the rail, bellowing to the watch below, “All hands! Clear for action!”

***

“Here, drink this.”

Leaning against the wall, Styles took the proffered cup of water, gulping half of it down in one go. “Thanks, miss.”

“How is your head now?” Anna asked.

“Feels like a broadside went right through it, but I’ll live, miss.” Styles’s battered face creased in a pained grin.

“Good. I’m going to need your help.” They had found the other seamen trussed and locked in the scullery, unharmed beyond a couple of sore heads.

“We ain’t goin’ t’ get far wi’out weapons, though, miss. The Frogs’re armed t’ the teeth.”

“We have this.” Anna held up her pistol.

Styles frowned. “That’s one o’ Mr Bush’s, ain’t it?”

Anna blushed slightly. “He…lent it to me.” She would not admit that she had taken the gun from Bush when she had kissed him goodbye earlier. “We will have to improvise anything else.”

“Right.” Styles climbed unsteadily to his feet. “We better get goin’, miss – we ain’t got much time.”

She caught hold of his arm. “We can’t let them hurt William – I mean, Mr Bush.”

“It’s all right, miss. I didn’t let the Dagos do fer ‘im, and I ain’t goin’ t’ let the French ‘ave a go now,” said Styles. “Don’t you worry.”

 

***

“Sir, I can hear something.” Orrock was suddenly there at Hornblower’s side, looking concerned. “Up there, on the path.”

“’E’s right, sir,” Matthews agreed, appearing from nowhere. “I ’eard it, too.”

“Footsteps, sir. Coming this way.”

“Form up the marines, facing the cliff. Whoever they are, we’ll be ready for them,” said Hornblower.

“And what if those footsteps belong to my daughter?” asked Maitland.

“Should that be the case, she will not be harmed, Mr Maitland, but I can take no chances. I suggest that you and your wife retreat to the safety of the cave – I would not want either of you to be caught in any crossfire.”

Maitland blinked. “You truly believe there to be enemy agents here?”

“Has it taken you so long to realise? Are you so naïve to think that men would be willing to risk their lives purely to restore your wife to you?” asked Hornblower. “In time of war, sir, far higher ideals are at stake.”

***

Lambert regarded the beach below. In the growing daylight, it was possible to see the activity, the sergeant of marines forming his men. “How many men have you?” the doctor asked Bush.

Bush would have refused to answer, but the wicked-looking knife held by one of the soldiers was enough to change his mind. “Twenty marines, ten seamen.”

“We are evenly matched, then. It is of no matter – we have the advantage.” Lambert turned and barked orders to his subordinates in French – Bush was unable to follow the words, but he could guess their intention.

“You won’t be allowed to get away with this,” he told Lambert, fixing him with a glare that always had the ratings quaking in their boots. “He will stop you.”

The doctor just laughed. “Such touching devotion. We shall see how anxious Captain Hornblower is to have his precious lieutenant back alive.”

***

“Good God.”

Prowse looked through the telescope again, making sure he hadn’t imagined it. No – there they were, on the headland above the beach, and forming up under cover of the trees on the cliff path.

French soldiers. French soldiers on English soil.

Prowse’s blood boiled at the sight. “You there!” he yelled to the helmsman. “Hard to port! Take us into the bay!”

***

The tramping of boots became louder. Hornblower could see movement amongst the trees.

“Make ready, sergeant,” he said quietly. Raising his voice, he called out, “Come forward, and put down your weapons. We have you covered.”

There was a pause, and then a vaguely familiar voice, thick with a French accent, drifted to him from the foot of the cliff path. “I am so glad you think so, captain. However, I am afraid that you are wrong. It is I who have you covered.”

From the shadows of the overhanging branches, three figures emerged – two of them propelled the third, stumbling and bound, between them. Hornblower’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised the prisoner – Bush looked grimy and exhausted. They shoved him, and he fell heavily to his knees on the sand.

“Now, Mr Hornblower,” said the man in civilian clothes, his tone mocking, “We have a stalemate, do we not?”

“Dear God!” Maitland exclaimed, emerging from the shelter of the cave mouth and staring at the man in astonishment. “Tony!”

Hornblower looked at the Frenchman again – his whole demeanour seemed to have changed, his posture and manner having suddenly gained a wealth of confidence, but it was indeed Doctor Lambert. A cruel smile twisted his face.

“So you are the traitor, sir,” Hornblower said.

“Why, Tony? Why did you not tell me?” Maitland asked.

“I am sorry, Richard, but as you can see, I have a different agenda. It would have been folly to reveal my plans to you.” Lambert turned to Hornblower. “I am no traitor, captain. I serve my country with all my heart and soul.”

Bush raised his head. “You have neither, Lambert,” he sneered.

Lambert, face black with anger, backhanded him across the face. Bush grunted, head snapping to one side with the force of the blow. Hornblower started forwards, but the multiple cracks of muskets being cocked made him pull up short. Above, on the cliff top, blue and white uniforms had suddenly appeared, more coming from the trees at the foot of the path.

“It seems your Mr Bush has not learnt to speak only when spoken to,” Lambert said.

“If you harm him - ” Hornblower began, but the doctor cut him off.

“You have a choice, captain. Surrender, or we shall see just how long a British officer takes to die.”

Hornblower watched in horror as the soldier at Lambert’s side grabbed Bush by the hair, jerking his head back. With a vicious smile, the man rested a knife against Bush’s exposed throat…

 

To be continued…


	12. Part Twelve

“Stop this! Lambert, this is not the way that things are done,” Hornblower said desperately, not daring to move a muscle. His eyes were fixed on the little tableau twenty feet away, on the knife glinting in the approaching dawn.

“Who is to say how things are done? This is war, captain – there are no rules here,” Lambert replied. “You have only to do as I ask, and Mr Bush will be spared. Throw down your sword.”

“Don’t listen to him, sir.” Bush’s voice was strained, but level. Hornblower could detect no fear there. “Do what you have to.”

“How noble. Brave words, lieutenant, but only words, I fear.” Lambert looked at Hornblower, raising an eyebrow. “Shall we see what your captain has to say?”

Hornblower was torn. His mind whirled, but for the first time in a long, long while he had no idea what to do. He knew his duty, that his first consideration should always be to protect the country at all costs, but how could he justify sacrificing Bush in such a way? Sentiment was clouding his judgement, making him weak – he routinely sent men to their deaths, little though he liked it, and they did not blame him for it. Bush had told him in the past that he fully expected to die in battle, and did not fear it – his only concern was that it should be quick, and honourable, defending his country. But this was not battle. This was not honourable.

A few months before, when Wolfe had boarded the Hotspur, Hornblower had been quite willing to lay down his own life in order to regain the ship and finally be rid of the man, but he had not reckoned on Bush’s inability to fire the vital shot. Wolfe would have shot Hornblower, and Bush could not do it, would not do it, knowing that, though the action would have taken out a threat to England, he would have killed his captain as surely as if he had pulled the trigger himself. Hornblower had seen this as a failing, and berated Bush for it later, angry that his orders had been disobeyed, but now…placed in an equally impossible situation…he could no more make the decision himself. He had to somehow put a stop to this, but how could he do so when it would mean murdering his best friend?

***

“So many men…”

Anna crouched in the shadows overlooking the beach, and shook her head. There had to be at least thirty French soldiers, all heavily armed with swords and muskets. They were but five, their weapons consisting of one pistol and whatever they could find in the house – Styles was carrying one of the stout oak legs of the hall table, a sharpened kitchen knife in his belt. The other sailors were similarly armed.

“We won’t ‘ave t’ take on ‘em all, miss,” Styles whispered. “It’s the doc we need t’ take out, confuse ‘em. Give the marines time t’ fire.”

“Then you have a plan?”

The big man grinned. “Oh, aye. Matty’s always tellin’ me t’ be subtle, and this is. Think you can fire that pistol, miss?”

Anna shifted uncomfortably, the pain in her shoulder still a dull throbbing. “I can handle a gun with either hand, never fear,” she said firmly.

“Right. Then this is what we’ll do…”

***

“I am waiting, Mr Hornblower.” Lambert checked his watch. “You have had more than enough time to consider your answer. Is it to be as I ask, or should we see the colour of Mr Bush’s blood?” He gave the kneeling Bush a thoughtful glance. “The knife is so crude compared with the swift efficiency of the guillotine, but in time of war one cannot be squeamish. The effect is still the same.”

Bush shot Lambert a look of pure loathing, but wisely said nothing. He was perfectly still, barely even daring to breathe.

“You have not a shred of honour or common decency,” shouted Hornblower, the anger in his voice barely controlled now.

Lambert shrugged. “I have little use for either in my profession. Spying is a dirty business, captain.” He looked at the watch again. “One minute.”

***

It was hard going, away from the path, feeling for footholds on the loose earth.

The smooth soles of Anna’s kid slippers failed to gain purchase, sending small stones scattering down the cliff side. Once Styles had to quickly catch her before she fell – she stifled the started cry that welled in her throat just in time. They made their way down an unused route, barely a track, some distance from the French. The other sailors had gone in the opposite direction, their task to provide a distraction. Anna had discovered a small quantity of gunpowder in her father’s study, charge for his pistols that had been missed when the weapons in the house were confiscated – Cartwright, Turner and Drew, provided with this and Bush’s tinderbox, had become more cheerful when they saw that there was a chance they could blow at least one Frenchman to kingdom come.

She could see the figures on the beach more clearly now in the dawning light – Lambert was half turned away from her, gesturing with the pistol he still held, a watch in his free hand. “Tick tock, Mr Hornblower, time marches on,” he was saying, that mocking smile still in place. Anna had never felt such anger as that which flooded through her when she saw him now – it pounded in her head, hummed in her veins…she longed to raise her weapon and shoot him down, for abusing her father’s trust, using her mother’s plight as a means to his own ends, hurting Bush, for betraying them all to the enemy, to Bonaparte. It would be satisfying just to aim at the back of that smooth dark head and pull the trigger…

“Miss? Miss, ‘re you all right?” Styles asked, jolting her back to reality. There was concern on his face.

Anna shook herself. What had she been thinking? “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“You know what t’ do?”

She nodded, and carefully cocked the pistol. They were some fifty feet from the party of French soldiers in the trees, on the other side of the cove. Here there was scrub and brush, and huge rocks to shield them from view, at least for the moment.

“On my count…” whispered Styles, “One…two…”

***

On the Hotspur, Prowse stood like a sentinel on the quarterdeck, his glass trained on the cliff top.

“Take your aim,” he told the waiting gun crew below, “Get a good look at the bastards…”

***

Time had just run out.

Lambert held up the watch, tutting. “Oh, dear, captain. I fear I must have a decision from you. Will you be sensible, and concede defeat?”

Hornblower’s shoulders slumped. There was no way out. Nothing would come to save them now. His resolve had failed him, his emotions overruling any clear thought, and the enemy had won. He began to drag his sword from its scabbard. “Very well, Lambert. Have it your way. I - ”

The fateful words never left his mouth.

As he was about to do the unthinkable, to surrender to a Frenchman on English soil, an explosion rang out, deafening in the early morning peace. Earth and rock flew outwards from the cliff face, a soldier screamed from above, tumbling through the air to land in a horribly twisted heap on the sand.

 

***

“FIRE!!!!” Prowse bellowed.

 

***

There was the distinctive whistle of a cannonball through the air, and another, bigger explosion followed the first, demolishing a huge chunk of the cliff top and taking half of the enemy soldiers with it.

Lambert was screaming in French, looking around wildly to see where the attack was coming from. Hornblower glanced over his shoulder – there, in the bay, was Hotspur, smoke drifting across her deck. At last, they had an advantage!

He drew his sword, waving it above his head. “Hotspurs, to me!”

***

Lambert pointed his pistol straight at Bush. “You will die now, lieutenant.”

Bush just looked back at him, unafraid. “I’ve been threatened by better people than you, Lambert.”

“That is of no importance. I hope that you find Hell a pleasant dwelling.”

“You’ll be there far sooner than me.”

Furious, Lambert pulled back the hammer…a shot rang out and he yelled suddenly in pain, dropping the pistol. There was blood welling over his hand. He shouted something unintelligible to the soldier still holding Bush – Bush closed his eyes as he felt the blade press more firmly into his throat. So this was it. Funny, he’d always pictured it differently, cut down in the heat of battle, not kneeling in the dirt, helpless and humiliated. He braced himself for the blow…

…and gasped in surprise as the pressure on his windpipe lifted and he was suddenly pitching forwards onto the sand. Struggling to see over his shoulder, unable to right himself, he stared in astonishment as Styles appeared from the smoke drifting across the beach, yelling with rage and swinging a makeshift club. In a moment, the soldier with the knife lay beside Bush, utterly still, his head caved in.

“Bloody hell!” Bush exclaimed. “Styles! I thought you were - ”

“Dead, sir? It’ll take more’n a bump on the ‘ead t’ finish me off,” Styles said with a grin. He picked up the knife, looking at the wicked serrated blade. Bush shuddered inwardly as he saw it properly for the first time. “Evil lookin’ thing. You ‘ang on, sir, I’ll ‘ave yer free in a jiffy.” The knife made short work of the ropes, and the next moment Bush was pushing himself out of the sand, his muscles cramping from their mistreatment.

He massaged his wrists gratefully. “Thank you, Styles. You couldn’t have come a moment too soon.”

“My pleasure, sir. This is summat new.”

Bush raised a questioning eyebrow. “Oh? What?”

Styles’s grin broadened. “You bein’ pleased t’ see me, sir.”

Shaking his head, Bush smiled. “It won’t last, Styles.”

There was movement behind them. Styles swung round. “Sir…”

The fallen pistol lay on the shingle. Lambert was reaching for it with his good hand – Bush lunged for him, their hands closing over the weapon at the same moment. They struggled fiercely, neither willing to gave way to the other. Bush felt someone grab him round the middle, trying to bodily drag him away – a confused glance backward told him that a huge French trooper had appeared from nowhere. The next second Styles was there, roaring at the top of his voice, felling the man with a swing of his club. The man toppled, letting go of Bush, who fell heavily on the sand. He made a desperate grab for the pistol - his fingers touched it just as Lambert snatched hold of his arm. The gun skittered out of reach, into the undergrowth. Its loss seemed to fuel Lambert’s fury – he rolled, hand curling into a fist and driving into Bush’s stomach. Bush bellowed in pain, a sound abruptly choked off as all the breath rushed out of him. Reflexively, he lashed out, landing a punch on Lambert’s jaw and sending him reeling backwards.

“Styles!” Bush yelled, looking wildly around, but the big man was preoccupied with the French giant, who did not seem to realise that his skull was cracked, blood running down his face in a torrent.

Lambert picked himself up, scrabbling for the pistol. With a great roar of frustration, Bush charged, barrelling into the doctor and taking them both to the ground. Lambert caught Bush a glancing blow on the chin, his hands, the wound forgotten, searching for his assailant’s throat. Bush desperately grabbed at the man’s wrists, using all his strength to bear them away, but Lambert had not suffered the injuries plaguing Bush – he still had reserves of energy, and Bush was nearly spent. His vision swam, his arms turning to lead.

There was a scuffle a few feet away – Bush automatically turned his head to see what had made the noise, a reflex action that cost him dear. He had a confused, blurred glimpse of Anna scooping up the fallen pistol before Lambert stabbed his fist into Bush’s sternum and Bush doubled up, gasping for breath. He felt himself shoved roughly aside, trying to suck air into his lungs – a cry, a woman’s cry, from behind him turned his blood to ice. With an effort he raised his head to see Anna struggling with Lambert – the doctor’s fingers twisted into her shoulder, her face was contorted with pain as blood seeped through the fabric of her dress.

“Anna!” Bush tried to shout, but her name emerged only as a gasp.

She looked back, with wide entreating eyes as Lambert hauled her towards the path, her lips forming a word, “William!”

“Anna!” Fighting the bile that rose, stinging his throat, Bush tried to get to his feet – someone grabbed him by his uninjured arm and dragged him upright. Hazily, he saw Styles, a nightmare vision of bloodstains and clotted gore.

“Bloody Frog wouldn’t lie down,” the big man grumbled.

“Styles – he’s got Anna,” Bush managed to say. “We have to get after him.”

Styles pressed something into his hand – Bush was surprised to find that it was his sword. “You’ll be needin’ this, sir. I think that Frenchie were goin’ t’ use it as a toothpick.”

“Thank you.” He seemed to be saying that to Styles a hell of a lot lately. He looked across the beach – with the marksmen on the cliff dealt with by Prowse, the Hotspurs seemed to have the upper hand. Beyond the scene of the battle, through the smoke, Bush could make out Lambert, dragging Anna with him, making his way up the path. His movements were hurried but precise – Bush suddenly realised the doctor’s destination. “He’s heading for the tower…”

 

To be continued…


	13. Part Thirteen

“He’s heading for the tower.”

Bush was already moving, marshalling his flagging energy. He couldn’t, *wouldn’t* collapse now, not with Anna depending on him. Lambert had disappeared into the trees – ignoring the cliff path, Bush struck out across the beach, towards the scene of the still-raging battle. “Come on, Styles!”

“But sir – the path’s this way!” Styles pointed, confused.

“Come *on*, Styles – we don’t have much time!”

Shrugging, the big man pulled the musket from a lifeless Frenchman’s fingers and followed.

***

“Vive l’Emperor!”

Emperor? So that was what Boney was calling himself these days, was it? The French trooper rushed at Hornblower, sword held high – Hornblower’s blade made short work of him, slicing through the man’s side. He pulled it free, the resistance tugging at his arm, and turned to see the Hotspurs struggling with the remains of the French soldiers. The enemy were heavily outnumbered following the decimation of their ranks by Prowse, but they continued to fight with the ferocity of cornered men. The Hotspurs, in their turn, pressed their advantage, fuelled by anger and indignation that the enemy were on their very doorstep. Hornblower was relieved to see only a handful of casualties among their ranks. They could finish this, by God, they could!

His feet were carrying him across the sand before he realised, towards the French sergeant tussling with Matthews. The bos’n was gamely holding his own, but the Frenchman was determined to give him no quarter, and Matthews’s wiry frame was no match for a solidly built trooper inflamed with battle madness. The sergeant’s sword hacked down with incredible force – Matthews parried it, but the man’s arm was still pressing down, pushing him back…

…until another blade was suddenly there, the tip of which pressed against the soft flesh of his throat.

Hornblower met the man’s startled gaze. “Will you surrender?”

***

Bush saw Hornblower’s intervention, saw the Frenchman slowly and reluctantly hand over his sword. A small measure of relief flowed through him, but he could not allow himself to stop. That battle might be over, but his own was far from done.

***

“Let me go!”

Anna struggled, but stopped when more pain, even worse than before, shot up her arm. The whole left side of her body was one mass of agony, every nerve ending on fire. With every wrench on her shoulder fresh blood ran down her back and chest, soaking into her already stained dress. Light-headed, her vision swam, the beach looming large below her then spiralling away sickeningly as Lambert hauled her up the path.

“Why are you doing this?” she heard herself ask, but her voice sounded small and weak, as if it were coming from a long way away. “How have I ever hurt you?”

“You are my safe passage away from here,” Lambert said, smiling through gritted teeth. “Hornblower is an *honourable* - ” he invested the word with scorn “- man. He will not shoot as long as you are with me. Even your fool of a lieutenant would not be so stupid. We shall be on the Egalité before they realise we have gone.”

He pulled her arm again, and Anna cried out. “ They will find you – do you honestly think William will let you get away?”

Lambert just laughed. “We shall see. He may still give me some amusement by trying before I kill him.”

***

“Mr Orrock, take charge of the prisoners – begin transferring them to the Hotspur.”

Orrock saluted. “Aye aye, sir.”

They had been fortunate – only four fatalities among the Hotspurs, and half a dozen more wounded. More than Hornblower would have liked, it was a small price to pay for the safety of England. He turned, scanning the beach. “Matthews, find Mr Bush.”

“I think you should know, sir – I just saw Mr Bush ‘eadin’ for the cave, sir,” the bos’n replied. “Styles were with ‘im.”

“The cave?” Of course, Maitland and his wife were still sheltering there – Hornblower had all but forgotten them. “He will be checking on the Maitlands, no doubt.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Matthews looked worried. “It’s the doctor, sir – ‘e’s taken Miss Maitland.”

***

“Richard, what ‘ave we done?”

Annette Maitland stared out at the scene of devastation on the beach, eyes wide with horror. “Tellement destruction inutile de la mort... tellement…” She shook her head, leaning into her husband’s embrace.

Maitland grimly surveyed the aftermath of the battle – blood soaked the sand, the cove was littered with the twisted bodies that had once been French soldiers, scattered debris from the cliff mixing with the fallen weapons and remains of those men caught in the explosion. Smoke drifted across the beach, giving the whole place the aspect of something from a nightmare. Annette had seen dreadful things in France – he had hoped to spare her any more pain. “We make amends as best we can, my dear,” he told her now, gripping her hand. “And we pray that when the time comes the Lord will forgive us.” He had wanted to fight, wanted to help, to do something to stop this invasion, this violation of his country, had been half out of the cave when Annette had caught his arm, demanding to know what he thought an unarmed man could do.

“Killing yourself will help no one!” she screamed at him, and she had been right.

But this was his fault. His single-minded determination, his desire to hold her in his arms once more had led to this. He had refused to surrender his goal under any circumstances…and he had been used, taken for the fool he was. Had it not been for Hornblower and his men, had not some chance, some quirk of fate washed the near-dead Bush up on his land…he dared not to think about what might have happened.

“Richard…” Annette had raised her head, was gazing, startled, at something behind him.

Maitland turned, to see two figures entering the cave, one huge, the other smaller and leaner, silhouetted against the morning light. They resolved themselves into a dishevelled and weary Bush, followed by the big seaman who had been left at the house. Bush looked fit to drop, his uniform rumpled and dirty, his collar open – the wound on his temple had reopened, though he appeared not to have noticed. Annette gasped, and crossed herself when she saw Styles, and even Maitland blanched – the big man was a grisly vision of bloodstains, like something from an abattoir.

“Mr Bush!” Maitland exclaimed.

Bush looked at him in tired surprise. “Mr Maitland. Glad to see you safe, sir.”

“What the devil is happening, man? Where is Doctor Lambert?”

A pained expression crossed Bush’s face. His eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Up there. He has Anna with him.”

“Good God!”

“Anna! Oh, mon pauvre enfant! Vous devez faire quelque chose!” Annette clutched Bush’s sleeve. “You must do something!”

The lieutenant’s expression was grim. “Everything within my power, ma’am.” He gently removed her fingers, and hurried past.

“Wait! I am coming with you,” Maitland announced, moving to follow Bush.

The smaller man stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I really think you should stay here, sir.”

“Damn it, man! She’s my daughter! Do you think I’m going to leave her to the mercy of that traitor?”

“No, sir, never. But your wife has need of you, too,” said Bush quietly. His eyes met Maitland’s steadily – Maitland had seen the firm resolve in them before, hours earlier, but had been to preoccupied with his own ends to notice.

Reluctantly, he nodded. “Bring her back to us, Mr Bush.”

Bush saluted. “Aye aye, sir.” And then he vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, Styles at his heels.

***

“The path, Matthews – a two-pronged attack.”

“Aye, sir. There’s another staircase – leads from the outside,” Matthews said. “But we’d better hurry, sir.”

“Come on, then.” Breaking into a run, Hornblower headed for the cliff path.

***

Prowse watched the French ship through his glass.

“Come on, you bugger…show your true colours…”

The ship had not changed her course – she must have been aware of Hotspur, but she seemed to be moored, gun ports closed, as though waiting for something. And Prowse wanted to know what that something was.

“Mr Carman!” he shouted to the youngest midshipman. “Get aloft with your glass – let me know the minute that Frenchman does anything.”

***

“Why’s ‘e goin’ fer the tower, sir? ‘E’ll be trapped,” Styles said as he followed Bush up the slippery stone steps.

The lieutenant was climbing slowly, carefully, feeling his way in the darkness, stopping every so often to listen. “The ship, Styles,” he replied softly, “He can signal the French ship from the tower.”

There was a moment’s silence as Styles digested the information. Finally he said, “We’d better stop ‘im, then, sir.”

“I fully intend to. I look forward to – did you hear that?”

“Sir?”

“Shhh.” They both fell silent, listening.

Faintly, footsteps could be heard above their heads.

***

Lambert flung Anna into the only chair. She bit back a cry and slumped in the rickety seat, trying to stem the tears of pain and frustration that were welling in her eyes. Only a few hours ago everything had been all right. Her mother was finally coming home after so long – she could scarcely contain her excitement at the thought. All the years of planning, covert communication, risking everything had finally come to an end. Their family would be complete once more – Anna had been longing for this for as long as she could remember.

And now it was all falling apart.

She tried to keep some hope alive in her heart, hope that someone would come for her, but the battle below had been raging so fiercely…she could not bear the thought that Bush might be dead. Though she had barely known him a few days, she was aware that he was like no man she had ever met before. Anna clung to the memory of his face in the candlelight, the touch of his lips against hers as he had kissed her so gently, so tenderly…in the red haze that was filling her mind, he was the only thing that seemed real, that made sense of the madness.

Behind her, she was dimly aware of Lambert hunting through the debris on the table, swearing to himself in French. It was almost daylight – surely the battle, the explosions, had not gone unnoticed? They would have the militia down on them before long…Anna prayed that it would be before Lambert could succeed in contacting his comrades.

***

There were no candles at the top of the stairs.

Bush swore, and felt in his pocket for the tinderbox – to his annoyance, it was not there. He must have dropped it when Lambert surprised him at the house. He swore again, some of the foulest epithets he could think of.

Styles whistled. “Bloody ‘ell, sir –where’d you pick *those* up?”

“Shut up, Styles,” Bush snapped. “Come on, and try not to trip over anything.”

Together they crept through the cellar, Bush negotiating the various obstacles more by instinct than any recollection of their position. Occasionally Styles gave a muffled grunt as he barked his shins on a packing case. They found the staircase more by luck than judgement, Bush taking the lead.

“Keep that musket ready, Styles,” he whispered.

“Already am, sir.”

“Good. Quietly now.”

***

Lambert turned from the window, glaring at Anna. She lay wilting in the chair, deathly pale, her dress a mess of darkened red stains. In two quick strides he had reached her, taking hold of her chin and forcing her head up. She moaned weakly, her eyelids flickering.

“Wake up!” he commanded, slapping her face. Her eyes fluttered open, a fuzzy blue. “Where have they taken the codebook? Your friends – what have they done with it?”

Anna’s face creased in confusion. “I…I don’t…”

Lambert slapped her harder. Her head rolled on her shoulders, and she moaned once more. “*Tell me!!*” he screamed, drawing back his hand to strike again.

“I should have guessed you would turn out to be coward, Lambert,” said a familiar voice from the doorway, startling him. Lambert’s head jerked up to see Bush standing there, sword in hand, a huge sailor with a musket held ready behind him. The lieutenant’s face was filthy and drawn, but it was set with determination, the cool blue eyes hard. “Only a coward would hit a woman,” Bush continued, his contempt obvious. “Let her go.”

Lambert pulled Anna from the chair, holding her limp form against him, pulling out the pistol he had taken from her. “You don’t have the guts to face me alone, Bush?”

“I would face you alone if you wanted it, Lambert. Stop hiding behind Anna’s skirts – she has done nothing to harm you.”

“Maybe she has not, but you have. My plans are in ruins because of you! I should have let you die when I had the chance! Ten years of subtle plans, all overturned by an Englishman without imagination!” Lambert spat. “You and your captain – you had to interfere!”

“I have my duty,” Bush said quietly. “A concept a man like you wouldn’t understand.”

***

“Let me take a shot at ‘im, sir,” Styles whispered in Bush’s ear.

The lieutenant shook his head. There was no way that they could get a clear shot at Lambert without hitting Anna, which of course had been the doctor’s intention. She sagged against him, her face as pale as paper – Bush’s heart clenched to see her so and to be able to do nothing about it. Lambert had known that he would not risk hurting Anna.

“Tell me where the codebook is, lieutenant,” Lambert said now. The man’s dark eyes were wild, reminding Bush of a rabid dog he had once faced down at home. The animal had been cornered in the yard, filled with the desperate fury of a creature that knows it has been trapped. Lambert had the same dangerous gleam in his eye. “Tell me, and I will not kill her.”

“You are killing her now, man, can you not see that?” Bush exclaimed. “For God’s sake, you are a doctor – will you let her bleed to death?”

“The codebook. Where is it?” Lambert laid the barrel of the pistol against Anna’s delicate throat. With a start, Bush recognised it as his own, the one he had lost. “I am waiting, Bush.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“I think you do. I will give you thirty seconds to tell me.”

“You bloody fool – I don’t know anything about a codebook! Stop this insanity!” Bush took a step forwards – the click of the hammer on the pistol being drawn back stopped him in his tracks. He held up a hand. “If you want to kill me, then do it, but leave Anna.”

Lambert’s eyebrow flickered in surprise. “Are you offering yourself to me?”

“If that’s what you want. Let Anna go – she doesn’t deserve any of this.” Bush put his sword down carefully on the floor. He drew himself up to his full height.

“Sir, no - ” he heard Styles murmur behind him, appalled.

“Well, Lambert?” Bush asked. “Which is it to be – you or me?”

***

“This way, sir.” Matthews led the way round the side of the tower. Sure enough, behind a wall of ivy there was an opening, the rotten wood of the door barely hanging onto its rusted hinges.

Hornblower raced up the spiral staircase, sword drawn. He could hear voices, drifting from the room above, voices raised in anger: Lambert, nasal and desperate, and the familiar growl of Bush.

“You bloody fool – I don’t know anything about a codebook! Stop this insanity!” There was a sudden loud click – Hornblower knew the sound of a pistol being cocked when he heard it. He doubled his pace. “If you want to kill me, then do it, but leave Anna.”

What the hell was Bush doing?

“Are you offering yourself to me?” Lambert sounded surprised, but intrigued.

When Bush spoke again, his voice was perfectly level. “If that’s what you want. Let Anna go – she doesn’t deserve any of this.” There was a pause, then: “Well, Lambert? Which is it to be – you or me?”

Hornblower had reached the top of the steps. From his position in the doorway, he could see Lambert, his back to the door, holding the frail figure of Anna in his arms. The poor woman appeared to be unconscious, if not dead already. Bush stood before the other entrance to the room, head held high, his hands empty and held out towards Lambert. The fool was unarmed! Hornblower had been ready to sacrifice himself more than once, for the good of his country, for the sake of his friends, still would be prepared to, should the need arise. But he was damned if he would let Bush do the same, especially here and now, in a squalid little room, to a dirty spy like Lambert.

“Well?” Bush asked again.

***

Lambert raised the pistol, dropping Anna to the floor. She fell, skirts swirling around her, like a rag doll tossed away by an impatient child. So still…in despair, Bush could not tell whether she was alive or dead.

“You are a fool, Bush,” Lambert sneered. “Honour, principles, they are worth nothing in the end. Idealistic nonsense. They will not save you now.”

He aimed the gun at Bush’s head, and pulled the trigger.

 

To be continued…


	14. Part Fourteen

Bush was damned if he was going to die with his eyes closed.

He held his head high, defiantly, gaze fixed on Lambert, on the pistol.

There was a sneer on Lambert’s face. “You are a fool, Bush,” he declared, “Honour, principles, they are worth nothing in the end. Idealistic nonsense. They will not save you now.”

The pistol lifted, and Bush found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun, the gun that had killed Ortega, killed Maguire, and, eventually, Wolfe as well. At this distance, Lambert stood no chance of missing. The shot would blow Bush’s head off.

But he was damned if he was going to shut his eyes and give Lambert the satisfaction of thinking him a coward. Lieutenant William Bush was going to look death in the face and show it that he bloody well wasn’t afraid.

Come on, you bastard, he thought, and Lambert pulled the trigger.

***

A deafening explosion shook the little room.

Lambert jerked, the pistol kicking in his hand, but the shot went wide. He crumpled soundlessly to the floor, eyes still staring up at Bush, his face still locked in that superior, self-satisfied smile. As he fell, Bush could see the neat hole in Lambert’s right temple, and the bloodstain that was rapidly spreading across his pristine shirtfront.

He glanced around, momentarily unable to hear anything but the ringing in his ears. Through the smoke that threatened to blind him in the enclosed space, he blinked as he made out a familiar tall, gangling figure in the corner doorway.

“I won’t have you dying today, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said sternly, though there was relief in his eyes. “I would consider that a dereliction of duty.”

Bush almost laughed. Hornblower held a pistol in one hand, as did Matthews, right behind him on the stairs. They must have fired together, but even the simultaneous reports of two pistols would not have produced a sound more like an eighteen-pounder going off. Bush waved some of the drifting smoke away, and was suddenly aware of a large presence at his side.

Styles was looking down at Lambert’s body in disgust, the musket still in his hands, his finger on the trigger. He must have moved like lightning…Bush shook his head. How many times had Styles saved his life?

“Bastard,” Styles muttered. “I ‘ope ‘e burns.”

“’E’s dead, Styles, that’s enough,” said Matthews gently. “’E’ll get what’s comin’ to ‘im, don’t worry.”

“William.” Hornblower’s use of his Christian name jolted Bush back to reality. He realised with shame that in his shock at finding himself still alive he had forgotten about Anna. Hornblower was crouched over her, his face grave. Bush knelt beside him, taking her hand in his. She was cold, so cold, her face drained of all colour, seeming more akin to marble than living flesh. There seemed to be blood everywhere, so bright and lurid against the snow white of her skin.

“She is still alive,” Hornblower said quietly, and Bush felt his heart miss a beat. “Just.”

“We have to get her to a doctor, sir,” he said, grateful that his captain had some medical knowledge – he himself was at a complete loss. “And quickly, before she…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“We can take her back to Hotspur – Doctor Stewart will look after her.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bush gathered Anna up in his arms. As he did, a scraping noise suddenly came from somewhere overhead. “Did you hear that?”

The noise came again, a kind of rattling, like stones in a gutter. Hornblower was looking around the room, concerned. “Yes, I did.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

The sound was getting louder.

“It’s ‘ere, sir!” Matthews shouted anxiously. He pointed, and they could all see the steady trickling of mortar dust and grit coming from somewhere high up, amongst the greenery. As they all listened, another noise came from above, a far more disturbing sound – overhead, something creaked and groaned like a ship’s timbers in a storm.

“We must get out of here,” Hornblower said, leaping to his feet. “The gunfire must have dislodged some of the masonry – the whole building could come down around us!”

No one needed telling twice. Styles tried to help Bush with Anna, but despite his fatigue and weakness, he would relinquish her to no one. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he lifted her – she was so light, it felt as though there was no substance to her at all. She was fading away before his eyes.

“Come on, Mr Bush!” Hornblower called, shepherding Styles and Matthews towards the stairs. Bush cradled Anna to him, flowing as fast as he could. He felt one of the floorboards give beneath his weight, and leapt back just in time – where his foot had been a moment before was now a splintered hole, a yawning drop beneath. The rattling noise was still increasing in volume – in alarm, he saw that the trickle of gravel had become a torrent, debris pouring down from above the doorway to the stairs.

“Sir, look out!” he yelled, not a moment too soon. Hornblower and the others scattered – a second later chunks of masonry and stone pounded down, taking the floor with them and cutting off their escape. A chasm gaped ahead – Bush felt dizzy just looking at it.

Hornblower coughed, dust catching in his throat. “Thank you, Mr Bush.”

“Bloody ‘ell, sir, we’ve got to get out now!” exclaimed Matthews.

“We’ll have to take the tunnel, sir, it’s the only way,” Bush said.

Hornblower nodded. “Very well – Styles, lead the way.”

They hurried down the stairs, Hornblower bringing up the rear. Bush risked a glance over his shoulder as he turned on the spiral – behind Horatio he could see Lambert’s body on the floor, until, with an almighty creak, like the felling of an ancient oak or the toppling of a main mast, what remained of the roof came crashing down, entombing the doctor in dust and debris forever.

The sound of falling masonry followed them into the cellar, a great cloud of dust billowing down the stairs behind them as the staircase itself collapsed on their heels, the whole building literally folding in on itself. It had been weak already – the explosions on the cliff top must have only damaged the structure further.

Coughing, blind in the darkness, they stumbled on, down the treacherous steps carved into the rock below the tower. The boom of more collapsing stonework echoed above them. Bush prayed he wouldn’t slip – it had been difficult enough to keep his footing before, but awkwardly carrying Anna as well…he felt for the next step carefully, but as he did he was suddenly pitching forwards before he could stop himself, head spinning. His shoe skidded on the wet rock, he toppled, heart in mouth…

“What did I say, Mr Bush?” asked Hornblower’s voice in his ear. Bush was abruptly aware that he was no longer falling, his arm held in a firm grip.

He found he could breathe again. “Thank you, sir.”

After what seemed like forever, they reached the foot of the steps, and emerged into the cave. Maitland and his wife were rushing towards them, everyone talking at once, and then they were taking their daughter from Bush. He tried to protest, but exhaustion, kept at bay for so long, was sweeping over him, and Anna was quickly borne away in her father’s arms.

Dimly, Bush heard Hornblower assure the Maitlands that they would be taken to Hotspur, and the surgeon, with all speed. A hand guided him out of the cave and across the sand to the waiting boat – he stumbled, feet dragging with barely the strength to lift them, hardly aware of anything around him. He couldn’t recall reaching the ship, or how he made it to the deck – his head felt stuffed with cotton, his vision blurred. Hotspur pitched wildly, the massive figure of Maitland rocking from side to side as he hurried for the hatchway, the broken puppet that was Anna tiny in his arms. Bush tried to follow, but a touch on his arm held him back. He heard a fading voice say, “Styles, help me get Mr Bush to his cabin”, before the sky somersaulted overhead and he knew nothing more.

***

Between them, Hornblower and Styles lowered Bush onto his cot.

The lieutenant looked terrible, pale and haggard, face streaked with blood from the aggravated cut on his temple. Hornblower had caught him as he collapsed on the deck, crumpling without a sound, dead on his feet. Everything Bush had been through in the past twenty-four hours would have taxed a fit man, let alone one who had almost drowned only a week before.

Styles shook his head, looking down at Bush’s inert form. “’E don’t look good, sir.”

“Mr Bush will be all right, with rest,” Hornblower said firmly. “It is Miss Maitland we should be concerned about.” Anna had been taken below to Doctor Stewart, but at present it was debatable whether she would survive, having lost so much blood. “Tell Mr Prowse I shall be on deck directly.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Styles ducked out of the cabin, heading above decks.

Hornblower glanced back at Bush and sighed. Dipping a handkerchief in the basin on the washstand, he gently cleaned the wound on his friend’s forehead. Bush moaned and stirred slightly in his sleep, but didn’t wake. Hornblower drew a blanket over him and turned down the lamp.

“Get some sleep, William,” he said quietly. “You’ve earned it.”

***

Prowse was still at the rail when Hornblower emerged on deck.

“Well, Mr Prowse?”

“She’s still there, sir,” the master reported. “Hasn’t moved an inch since last night. She’s waiting for something, sir.”

“So I see. I fear she will wait in vain.” Hornblower could make out the ruins of the tower on the headland even without a glass – the whole building had fallen in on itself like a house of cards. He knew that it would not be long before he received a visit from the local authorities – there would be some explaining to do.

“How is Mr Bush, sir?” Orrock asked.

“Sleeping. He will not be resuming his duties for the moment.”

“Deck there!” came the call suddenly from aloft. “Frenchman’s getting underway, sir!”

“So she is,” Prowse said, observing the ship through his glass. Though she was not rigged as such, her lines made her origins as a ship of war obvious to the trained eye, despite the attempt to disguise the gun ports in her hull. “Shall I fire a warning shot?”

“So near to our own coastline? Certainly not, Mr Prowse. Think of the panic such an action would cause,” Hornblower snapped.

Prowse looked unconvinced, no doubt thinking that the night’s activities would have spread enough panic of their own. “Aye, sir.”

“Then we’re going to let her get away, sir?” Orrock asked incredulously.

“She is showing no colours, Mr Orrock. Besides, I can think of no better way to inform Bonaparte of the failure of his plan than to allow his men to return home in disgrace, “ said Hornblower, allowing himself a smile.

Prowse still had the glass to his eye. “She’s putting about, sir. Gun ports are closed.”

“Thank you, Mr Prowse.”

“Sir.” Orrock was at the larb’d rail, pointing towards the shore. Hornblower joined him – figures could be seen on the sand, red uniforms bright in the early morning sunlight. One was waving, shouting something through a speaking trumpet, but they were too far away for the words to be understood. “Looks like the militia, sir.”

“So that’s what made the Frogs turn tail all of a sudden,” remarked Prowse.

“Indeed.” Hornblower sighed inwardly – the local troops were quicker off the mark than he had expected. “Lower the quarter boat, Mr Orrock, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was clearly going to be no rest for any of them until Hotspur returned to Portsmouth.

 

To be continued…


	15. Part Fifteen

It was some hours before Bush woke.

Somewhere above him the last peal of a bell died away, feet tramping on the deck, jolting him out of sleep for good. A distant, vaguely alert part of his brain told him that the watch was being changed, though he had no idea what time it was.

He groaned. A dull ache seemed to permeate every inch of his body. Dimly he became aware that he was in his own cabin, his own cot – someone must have put him to bed. The familiar sway of the cot was comforting, like the gentle rocking of a cradle. Bush would have been quite content to lay there forever, in that comfortable haze between sleeping and waking, if it meant never having to move again – unfortunately, he knew from long experience that action was the only cure for the stiffness that would have overcome his battered muscles during his rest.

He struggled to sit up, back and shoulders protesting, and suddenly realised that there was a weight on his chest. Startled, and not a little worried, he raised his head, and found himself smiling in relief as he saw the furry, purring mass curled up on the blanket – William the ship’s cat had obviously taken possession of his habitual berth, unconcerned that the cot was already occupied.

“Rats – hold,” Bush told the cat as he deposited him on the deck. “Go and do your duty.” William glared at him, tail in the air, and leapt up onto the desk, where he proceeded to sit and wash himself, yawning widely. Bush managed to stand up and stagger over the battered little mirror – a quick glance told him that he looked as bad as he felt. A wreck with a day’s growth of beard stared back at him from red-rimmed eyes. He pushed back the tangle of curls from his forehead and winced as he saw the bruise creeping across one temple.

There was water in the basin - cold, but that didn’t bother Bush, well used by now to shaving in cold water. Within moments he was stripping off his mud and bloodstained uniform, clouds of dust flying from the fabric. His wrenched shoulder protested as he pulled the shirt over his head. On examination he discovered his stomach and ribs were black and blue from his fight with Lambert.

A shave and a clean uniform later, he felt more like a human being again. Finding a comb, he made an attempt to tame his hair and retie his queue, and ventured out of the cabin.

He almost ran smack into Styles, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Styles! Where’s the captain?”

“’E’s ashore wi’ Mr Maitland, sir.” The big man looked surprised to see Bush. “Thought you’d still be sleeping, sir.”

Bush brushed the comment aside. “And Miss Maitland? How is she?”

Now there was concern on Styles’s battered face. “Not good, sir. Her mother’s wi’ ‘er.”

“I see. Thank you.” Bush turned towards the companionway. “I should be on deck.”

“If yer don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir, you should get that cut seen to,” said Styles after a pause, adding quickly, “Not that I’d want to presume anythin’, sir.”

“Of course not, Styles.” Bush considered this, arching an eyebrow. Styles just met his gaze with as innocent an expression as he could manage, which wasn’t very.

“I’d better be getting’ about me duties, sir,” Styles said eventually.

As he hesitated, Bush gave him a pointed look. “Well, go on, then. I’m sure the deck needs swabbing if you have nothing else to do.”

A smile began to spread across Styles’s face, hastily smothered. He knuckled his forehead. “Aye aye, sir.”

Bush watched him go. He would be forever grateful to Styles for saving his life – what was, it, three times now? – but he wasn’t about to let the big man know that. Authority and discipline had to be preserved, and if Styles thought that he was going soft there would be little hope of maintaining either.

Bush shook his head and made his way for’ard.

***

He was met by Doctor Stewart as he entered the sickbay.

Bush was naturally distrustful of doctors, but he liked the Hotspur’s surgeon – Stewart was an efficient, no nonsense Scotsman with a dry sense of humour and an underlying compassion not usually found amongst his fellows. Though he had a tendency towards religious zeal, which could be irritating, he was a far cry from Clive, the alcoholic surgeon of the Renown.

“Mr Bush,” the surgeon said quietly, a slight smile of welcome touching his face, “it is a relief to see you safe among us once more. It seems the Almighty had other plans for you.”

“I came to enquire after Miss Maitland,” Bush said, privately thinking that, after everything he had been through recently, the Almighty must have taken a violent dislike to him.

Stewart held up a hand. “All in good time. You will first oblige me by allowing me to treat that rather nasty head wound you have there. And no arguments, sir, if you please,” he added as Bush opened his mouth to protest. “It should have been attended to some time ago.”

“I had other more pressing things to concern me,” Bush said, flinching as the doctor’s expert fingers probed the injury.

“So I understand. A very unpleasant business.” Stewart led Bush to a chair and busied himself with dressings and ointment. “It is always a very sad day when a physician goes bad. For a doctor to kill rather than cure…it is not nature’s way of things, sir.” He shook his head.

Bush, having been on the receiving end of Lambert’s attempts at both, declined to comment. His eyes were drawn to the part of the sickbay that had been cordoned off with screens – he could see a shadowy figure silhouetted on the canvas, a figure with a long delicate neck and dainty shoulders, hair curling beneath a little lace cap…for a moment his heart skipped, until he realised that the figure could not possibly be Anna. But it was so like… “Miss Maitland, doctor,” he said quietly as Stewart finished dressing his wound, “How is she?”

The surgeon sighed. “It pains me to admit it, but I believe that the only thing keeping Miss Maitland with us is a determined will to survive. She lost a great deal of blood – the wound to her should was considerably aggravated, tearing the stitches that had been inserted.”

“Will she live, do you think?” Bush fought down the anger that surged up within him, anger that Lambert should have hurt Anna so. It would do no good now.

Stewart wiped his hands. “You should have had that cut treated sooner, Mr Bush. It will leave a scar, though fortunately, from the angle, it will be mostly hidden by that mane of hair of yours. Did someone hit you over the head?”

Bush nodded impatiently. “With a pistol butt. Doctor, Miss Maitland?”

“I’ve done all I can. It is in the hands of a higher authority now,” said Stewart, glancing at the screens. “It may be that the only medicine left to her is prayer.”

***

It had taken Hornblower several hours to convince various concerned parties that there was no reason to panic.

The explosions on the cliff and the collapse of the tower, not to mention a beach strewn with French dead, had understandably caused some panic amongst the population of Amsworth. The squire and several landed residents were convinced that the invasion had begun, and only some persuasion and the assurance that Admiral Pellew was fully aware of the situation had stopped them from ringing out all the church bells and barricading themselves into their houses. Maitland was vociferous in his support of Hornblower, though it became obvious that most of his neighbours regarded him in some suspicion because of his French connections. Eventually, the deputation dispersed, the militia agreeing to Hornblower’s request for assistance in the burial of the enemy’s fallen.

Hornblower and Maitland walked together up the cliff path to Whitethorn.

“I must thank you, Mr Hornblower,” Maitland said after a period of silence. “I must also apologise. Your instincts were correct, sir.”

“Lambert was cunning, Mr Maitland. None of us suspected him. Do not blame yourself, I beg you.”

“Had I not bullied Mr Bush into questioning your orders, Anna would never have left the house. She would have been safe.”

“You cannot be sure of that,” Hornblower said, “Miss Maitland seems a very strong-willed woman.”

Maitland smiled slightly. “She is, at that. Takes after her mother. But if Bush hadn’t returned to the house she would never have thought of leaving Martha and the boys. She has become very attached to your lieutenant, Mr Hornblower.”

“I had noticed, sir.”

“Do you think the attachment is reciprocated?”

Hornblower had never thought to be having such a conversation about Bush. “Mr Bush seems to have an…affection for Miss Maitland,” he said carefully. “He has been very concerned about her. But more than that I would not like to say – Mr Bush does not make a show of his feelings.”

“Hmm.” Maitland nodded. “She’s resisted marrying for a long time – by convention she’s been on the shelf for a good few years. I’d like to see her settled. And I can see that Bush is a good man.”

“He is indeed, sir. I have no better officer or friend.”

Maitland nodded again, but said nothing more. They walked on in silence once more, Hornblower hoping that he hadn’t said anything he would give Bush cause to regret.

The house was in sight now. All was quiet – Maitland began to hurry, concern on his face. Hornblower tried to keep his pace, but the man’s legs were far longer than his own, powerful strides carrying him up the path. By the time he caught up, Maitland was standing on the doorstep, peering cautiously into the darkened hallway. The door stood open, blood on the frame. Hornblower drew his sword, following Maitland into his home.

It soon became apparent that Whitethorn was deserted. The house had been turned upside down - furniture had been smashed, drawers pulled from chests, their contents strewn all over the floor, portraits defaced and slashed with a knife, cupboards ransacked. Anything of value had been taken.

“That devil Lambert,” Maitland said, staring at the destruction that had been wreaked upon his home, “He has taken everything, ruined me.”

Hornblower could find no trace of anyone in the house. “You cannot think so, sir.”

“Can I not? Look around you, Mr Hornblower? What do I have left - a shell of a house and a reputation as a man who conspired with the enemy? I cannot remain here.”

“That is a concern for later, Mr Maitland. For the present, you and I have business with Admiral Pellew in Portsmouth.”

“Pellew?”

“The admiral will no doubt be very anxious to speak with you. And your daughter should not be moved.”

“We cannot remain aboard your ship indefinitely, Mr Hornblower,” said Maitland, looking at Hornblower with faint suspicion.

Hornblower knew why. “You may be assured that I have no intention of handing you over to authorities, sir – your part in this affair was playing in ignorance, and I shall make sure that their lordships are aware of the fact. And I should not like any of you to have to endure the discomforts of shipboard life for longer than necessary. Miss Maitland needs rest and care, and she shall have it – my wife’s mother runs a boarding house in Portsmouth, and I am sure that she will have no objections to your staying. To give you time to make more permanent arrangements, of course,” he added. Maitland was a proud man, and Hornblower could sense that he would accept no charity.

There was surprise on Maitland’s face now, surprise and some measure of contrition. “I am sorry, Mr Hornblower. It seems I have continually misjudged you. I thank you for your kindness.”

“I cannot blame you for being wary, Mr Maitland, but you have nothing to fear from me.”

“So I can see. Your offer is gratefully accepted, sir. Martha will have the boys until I can make the necessary arrangements for them to join us.” A sudden thought seemed to strike Maitland – he looked at Hornblower, eyes widening in alarm. “Dear God in heaven! Martha! Where in God’s name are my boys?”

***

“Anna, ma chérie, se réveillent, maman est ici. Anna? S’il vous plait, mon ange, vous ouvrent des yeux.”

There was no response. Annette Maitland had been talking to her daughter for hours, hoping desperately that Anna would open hers eyes, would speak to her. She had not seen her eldest child for nearly ten years – Anna had blossomed, become a beautiful woman, almost unrecognisable from the tangle-haired girl who had defended the house in France from the Revolutionary soldiers, wielding a pistol in either hand. This was not the reunion Annette had pictured all this time. She reached out, brushing Anna’s golden hair away from her face. So still, so pale…her darling child seemed as an effigy on a tomb.

“Anna, please, my darling,” she said, hoping that the English words would reach Anna if the French did not, “Anna, please, it is maman. Open your eyes for me, my sweet.”

The long lashes did not even flicker. Despair, pushed away for the past few hours as she tried to cling onto hope, threatened to overcome Annette. All the years she had been a fugitive, only just evading the authorities, trying all the time to return to her family, to begin her life anew…it had all been for nothing. Had she truly fought all this time only to see her only daughter die before her eyes?

Slowly, she became aware of another presence in the little makeshift room. Glancing up, expecting to see the doctor, she was surprised to find a man she could hardly recall seeing before standing at the foot of the cot. It took her a moment to recognise him as the officer she had seen in the half-light of the cave, the man who had gone after Anna when Lambert had taken her. Then he had been covered in sand and bloodstains, and later, dusty and dropping from fatigue – now she saw a handsome man, not particularly tall, but smart in his uniform, concern written in the noble lines of his face. A pair of pale blue eyes fixed on the cot and its occupant, and Annette could see pain within them.

“I think that you are the Monsieur Bush my husband has been telling me about,” she said quietly.

He looked up, startled. “I apologise, ma’am. I had no wish to intrude.” His voice was low, soft, but with an edge of strength to it, a slight roughness no doubt gained from years of shouting orders at his subordinates. Annette found it a pleasant sound, so very different from her Richard’s deep bass rumble.

“You are not. I am sure Anna would wish you to be here.”

“I should have stopped him. I should have seen him for what he was,” Bush muttered, shaking his head.

“Ne soyez pas si ridicule!” Annette exclaimed. When he looked at her blankly, she repeated the comment in English. “Do not be so ridiculous. This was not your fault! The man was a traitor, a spy, a madman! He is the one who has done this, the one who has put my daughter here, not you. I think that you have done nothing but to try to protect her.”

A rueful smile touched Bush’s face. “I tried, ma’am. I only wish she had let me.”

“You must know how headstrong Anna is by now, Mr Bush. She is her mother’s daughter. I do not blame you for any of this.” Annette regarded him carefully. His gaze had returned to the cot, watching Anna’s face, a kindling light within warming the cool blue of his eyes. “I think perhaps that I should be asking you of your intentions towards my daughter, lieutenant.”

“I should not presume so far as to have any intentions, ma’am,” he said, and could she hear a sigh, just a little? “I am in your daughter’s debt – I would probably be dead now without her help. But intentions…”

“You are not married, I think.”

Bush shook his head. “Only to the Navy, ma’am. I know nothing else. It is too late for me to change now.”

“Oh, it is never too late, Mr Bush,” Annette said sadly, and he looked at her in surprise. “You must take any chance for happiness when it is offered to you. There is never any warning when it is snatched away.” She clasped Anna’s hand between her own, and the tears finally began to fall.

Awkwardly, Bush crouched beside her chair, laying a gentle hand on her sleeve. “Mrs Maitland, please…please, don’t upset yourself.”

“After so long, for this to happen…” Annette’s voice caught in her throat, tears streaming down her face. Blindly, she reached out, finding the solid, comforting shape of Bush. A strong arm circled her, and she clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder. “My poor child…Mon enfant! Mon pauvre, pauvre enfant…”

 

To be continued…


	16. Part Sixteen

Bush held the despairing, weeping woman to him.

She shook in his arms, wracked by great sobbing breaths, her tears soaking the thick wool of his jacket. He rocked her gently, patting her back just as he comforted his sisters when they needed him. Mrs Maitland clung to him as though he were the only rock in a raging sea.

Eventually, she released him, ineffectually wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. Wordlessly, Bush pressed a handkerchief into her hand. She sniffed and managed a rather watery smile.

“You are a very kind man, Mr Bush. I thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, ma’am. Your distress is understandable.”

Mrs Maitland dried her eyes. “I should not like my husband to see. He tries so hard to be strong, but he is not, it is not in his nature. I have had to be strong for both of us. He could not have endured the last decade as I have, in France, in fear of my life. For a mother to be separated from her children…it is the hardest thing in the world.”

Bush could remember his mother’s tears, the day he had gone away to sea, how she had held him, how she had waved from the quayside until he was out of sight. For Mrs Maitland to have suddenly lost all her children, including one no more than an infant…an inconceivable agony.

“I cannot imagine what that must have been like,” he said quietly.

“You have family?”

“Three sisters.”

“And how would you feel if you were never to see them again?”

It was something Bush usually tried not to consider. He had left them behind so many times, not returning for months, sometimes years at a stretch, but to never see their faces again, never to hear Sally’s scolds, or Charlotte’s laughter, or see Lizzie’s smiling face…to have them gone forever…it would be more than he could bear.

His face must have betrayed his answer, as Mrs Maitland said, “I had a brother, Jean-Paul. The Jacobins murdered him, cut off his head before a baying mob. They would have done the same to me, given me to Madame Guillotine, and all because of my birth. You are lucky to have no Anciént Regimé in England, Mr Bush.”

“You survived. That is surely an achievement.”

“Survécu?” Mrs Maitland laughed harshly. “Oh, yes, I survived. I survived by hiding in ditches, riding for my life in the middle of the night, living in squalor…” She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. “I was forced to watch my own child, my only daughter, take up arms against the troops of the Convention, just to defend our home. And still they burnt it, razed it to the ground. They would have killed us all, murdered my babies as they slept! And now I see a traitor, one loyal to that animal Bonaparte, harming my family once again. My heart is breaking anew.” Her dark eyes turned to Bush, their gaze imploring. “I am tired of fighting, Mr Bush. I have no strength left. Will it ever be over? Will we never be safe?”

“You are in England now, ma’am. Bonaparte will not harm your family,” Bush said firmly.

“Ah, how I wish that were true.” Mrs Maitland returned her gaze to the cot, and the still figure of Anna. She brushed her fingers over the golden hair on the pillow. “You will protect my daughter, will you not?”

“Mrs Maitland - ”

“She needs a firm hand, but also a loving one.”

A distant cry from above startled Bush. The bos’n’s whistle shrilled through the air. He got to his feet, reluctant to abandon Anna but shamefully grateful to have an interruption. The conversation had taken a most awkward turn.

“Captain’s coming off, Mr Bush,” Doctor Stewart said quietly, appearing in the gap between the screens.

“Thank you, doctor. I apologise for leaving you so suddenly, Mrs Maitland.”

She inclined her head gracefully. Though there was a pronounced likeness between them, it was clear than Anna had inherited many of her father’s traits. Mrs Maitland was small, bird-like, and had a very obvious dignity – Bush found himself responding with a bow almost before he realised. “You have your duties, lieutenant. I am grateful to you for your company.”

“You seem to have made an impression,” Stewart remarked, accompanying Bush to the door. “Should one be presumptuous in wishing you happy?”

“One should keep one’s nose out of the business of others,” Bush growled.

A slight smile turned up the doctor’s mouth. “It seems one should be wary of having it bitten off. Very well, I shall say no more on the subject. You may be sure that I shall look after Miss Maitland to the best of my abilities.”

“Thank you. She doesn’t deserve to die.” Bush shook his head, his tone softening. “She didn’t deserve any of this.”

Stewart put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a companionable squeeze. “She must be a very special woman.”

“She is.” Bush could still see the motionless figure on the cot, her face peaceful. She looked just like the cursed princess in the fairytales Lottie used to read, waiting for a kiss to wake her. If only so simple a cure could work. “Just make her well again,” he told Stewart, and turned away.

***

Hornblower was surprised to see Bush on deck as he made his way through the entry port. The first lieutenant had looked earlier as though he could easily sleep for a week. At least he was now looking more like an officer than a casualty, clean and tidy and with the cut on his temple properly dressed.

He saluted as Hornblower approached. “Sir.”

“Mr Bush. I am glad to see you recovered.” More than glad – seeing Bush back in his proper place on the quarterdeck meant that all was once more right with the world. “ I would like to have a word – report to my cabin at three bells, if you please.”

Surprise flickered momentarily in Bush’s eyes, though his expression didn’t change. “Aye aye, sir. May I ask how you fared ashore?”

“Our business here is done. Mr Prowse, put the ship about and set a course for Portsmouth, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir. Hands to stations for weighing anchor!” Prowse bellowed.

Leaving Bush and Prowse to deal with the intricacies of getting under way, Hornblower went below. Maitland had gone at once to the sickbay, no doubt to tell his wife that they were now effectively homeless. Hornblower sank down at his desk, suddenly exhausted. How much more bad luck was going to befall one family?

At least the children were safe. He and Maitland had searched the house from top to bottom, calling the boys’ names with increasing desperation until a cry had answered them from the hayloft. Martha and the children had barricaded themselves into the loft on Anna’s instructions, Maitland’s manservant Duncan with them and wielding a coachman’s blunderbuss in defence. The boys came running out at the sound of their father’s voice, despite Martha’s attempts to check them, throwing themselves into his arms. It had taken a little time to explain what had happened, Samuel and George being too young to properly understand.

Jack had looked distressed, close to tears but trying to hide it. “Will Anna die, Pa?”

“Not if we can help it, lad,” Maitland assured him. “The three of you will have to pray for her with all your might.”

The boy gulped and nodded. “I suppose she’s got Mr Bush to look after her, hasn’t she? He won’t let her die.”

Maitland glanced at Hornblower – it seemed that Bush had not only made an impression on Anna.

“No, indeed he will not,” Hornblower found himself saying. “And nobody dares to disobey Mr Bush.”

Martha had taken the boys into the village – Maitland promised to make the necessary arrangements to bring them to Portsmouth within the week. It was not yet clear what would happen to them all after that. Though Maitland still had some little capital with a banker, he was a far from rich man.

Hornblower’s mind had been turning cartwheels trying to find a way out of a very awkward situation, without success. He could not have the family on board indefinitely, and he knew that Mrs Mason would not have the Maitlands as lodgers for long without some kind of payment. He could only hope that Admiral Pellew might take pity on them and suggest a solution.

There was a knock at the door, and he realised that he had been sitting in deep contemplation for nearly an hour. He straightened in his chair. “Come!”

The door opened and Bush appeared, hat tucked under one arm. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

“Yes, come in, William. Sit down. I would call for some coffee, but I’m not certain that either of us is up to it at the moment.”

A smile tugged at Bush’s mouth as he shut the door and took a seat. He still looked pale and tired, Hornblower noted, and there was a troubled light in his eye that would only be obvious to those who knew him well. Seeing that Bush was expecting him to say something, he explained his plans to take the Maitlands to Portsmouth.

“That’s very good of you, sir,” Bush said. “Are you sure Mrs Hornblower won’t mind?”

“Miss Maitland will need care. Can you think of anyone better to nurse her?”

“No, I suppose not. But Mrs Mason - ”

“I shall deal with Mrs Mason, have no fear.” Hornblower paused, regarding his first lieutenant carefully. “William, if there is anything you would like to tell me, you know that I am willing to stand by you both as your commanding officer and your friend. I shall not judge you with regards to anything you may wish to say.”

There was silence for several moments. Slowly, Bush’s carefully schooled mask cracked, giving way to surprise. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“I think that you do. Miss Maitland. You obviously have great regard for her.” When he received no response, Hornblower pressed on, “Her father has a high opinion of you. It seems that she has shown no strong attachment to any one man before. He seems content to give his blessing to a match - ”

He was interrupted by a groan from Bush. The lieutenant sank his head into his hands. He remained hunched in the chair, saying nothing, for some time. Hornblower, somewhat concerned, went to the brandy decanter, pouring them both a glass. By the time he returned, Bush had straightened. He wordlessly put one of the glasses into his friend’s hand and retreated behind the desk.

“It’s a mess, Horatio,” Bush said eventually.

Hornblower frowned. “How so? I could see the affection you have for the girl. Her parents see no difficulty.”

“I am the difficulty.” Bush sighed. “Yes, you’re right, I do care for her. More than I should on barely a week’s acquaintance. How can her parents countenance giving her to a man she hardly knows?”

“Perhaps they…see much to be admired,” said Hornblower a little awkwardly. “You have many good qualities, William.”

Bush coloured slightly at the compliment. “She is the granddaughter of a marquis, Horatio. I am a farmer’s son, a lieutenant with few prospects and dwindling hope of promotion, struggling to support three sisters, let alone a wife. She can do far better than me.”

“Granddaughter of a dispossessed marquis. You remember my employer at the Long Rooms? He once had a chateau, all the gold he needed, servants to attend to his every whim. Now he provides card tables for the entertainment of his social inferiors. The world is changing, William. Anna’s blood may be a little bluer than yours, but what does that matter?”

“She can do better,” Bush repeated stubbornly. “She deserves better.”

“And what does she want?” Hornblower asked gently. “What do you want?”

At last Bush looked up, and there was open confusion in his eyes. The guard, so carefully kept, was finally down. “I don’t know. God, I don’t know.” He downed the rest of the brandy in a gulp.

Hornblower leaned over and poured another. “Do you love her?”

Bush distractedly ran a hand through his hair, and nodded miserably. “God help me, yes, I think so.”

“Then surely that is all that matters.”

“If only it were that easy.” Bush laughed, but there was little humour in it. “Bloody hell, I thought life would get less complicated as I got older.”

“Have you never been in love before?” It was a question Hornblower would not have considered asking under any other circumstances.

“Once, a long time ago. Calf love.”

“What happened to her?”

There was a pause. Bush stared into his brandy, swirling the amber liquid in the glass, his eyes distant.

“William?” Hornblower asked, concerned.

The blue eyes lifted to his, and there was a wealth of pain within them. Pain, and…was that…fear? Gone was the stoic, unmoved lieutenant Hornblower knew – in his place was a genuinely frightened man. “She died. Influenza, when I was at sea.” Bush’s hand reached out, gripped Hornblower’s arm desperately, as a drowning man might. “Horatio…I…I don’t want Anna to die.”

Hornblower grasped his friend’s hand, anxious to reassure him. Though they both knew the words were hollow, he said the only thing he could: “We won’t let her.”

 

To be continued…


	17. Part Seventeen

The night was clear, a following wind easing Hotspur on her way home.

Never an easy sleeper, Hornblower had ventured from his cabin to pace the quarterdeck, deep in thought. His conversation earlier with Bush played repeatedly in his head. He had never seen his friend in such a way before, so open with his feelings…Bush had been a little embarrassed at having let his weakness show so clearly, but Hornblower had seen the fear, the anxiety in his eyes, and understood it. He remembered such emotions all too well himself, and couldn’t help wondering if others had seen them so easily in him when Archie had died.

He tried to reassure Bush as best he could, pointing out that many recovered from massive blood loss – Bush himself had done so nearly two years ago in Kingston. “Anna is a strong woman,” he said, though the words sounded false even to his ears. “She will pull through.”

He knew that Bush didn’t believe it any more than he did, though he desperately wanted to. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

“You may consider yourself off watch until we reach Portsmouth.”

“Oh, now, sir - ”

“No arguments, Mr Bush. You need to rest.”

“Sir, Admiral Pellew will expect a full report from us both,” Bush pointed out, beginning to sound more like himself. Emotion was under control once more.

“That is not important,” Hornblower said firmly.

“I hardly think the admiral will see it that way, sir.” To Hornblower’s relief, there was a flicker of amusement in Bush’s eyes, one brow lifting a fraction.

He sighed. “Very well, if you must. I am sure that Doctor Stewart will give up his desk to you. The sickbay is a quiet place in which to work.”

Bush looked blank for a moment before comprehension dawned. A grateful smile touched his face. “Thank you, sir.” He rose from the chair. “I had better see to it.”

“William.”

Bush hesitated, one hand on the doorknob. “Sir?”

“She will get better,” Hornblower said quietly. “She has much to live for.”

After a moment, Bush nodded, and withdrew, leaving Hornblower wishing he could indeed work the miracles some believed him to be capable of.

He walked the length of the quarterdeck now, listening to the ring of his own footsteps on the wood. On a night such as this, standing watch was a pleasant experience, peaceful and quiet. There was a chill in the air, but he hardly noticed. From here he could see the two figures at the rail below him, illuminated in the lamp light, one tiny and frail looking beside the massive bulk of the other. Mrs Maitland’s head rested against her husband’s chest, his arm curled protectively around her waist. They were talking quietly in French – Hornblower moved to the starboard rail to give them some privacy. He had been walking up and down for some time now, repeatedly glancing up at the stars, trying to concentrate his mind on what he was going to say to Admiral Pellew. Bush frequently took this watch – the quiet of it appealed to his sometimes-solitary nature.

Thinking of Bush once more led Hornblower to abandon the rail and go below, leaving the deck to Orrock.

***

The sickbay was tranquil; the only sounds the steady creaking of Hotspur’s timbers and the moans the wounded men made in their sleep. Doctor Stewart left his patients as Hornblower entered.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, sir,” the surgeon said in a low voice, “The men are making good progress – two of them should be up and about within a few days.”

“That is excellent news, doctor.” Hornblower glanced around the room – his eye fell on a figure in blue slumped over the doctor’s small desk. Bush had fallen asleep over his work, his head resting on one arm.

“If Mr Bush could be persuaded to properly rest, it would be the better for him,” Doctor Stewart said, shaking his head. “Given the choice, I would confine him to the sickbay, but I know that he would never agree to it.”

“I doubt if he will rest until Miss Maitland is out of danger. How is she?”

“Her condition is stable, for the moment. I have done all I can. It is down to the good Lord to decide whether He wishes her to join Him.” Stewart sighed. “It is not for us to question His wisdom.”

“The British Navy does not give up without a fight, Doctor Stewart,” Hornblower snapped. The surgeon’s religious enthusiasm made him feel uncomfortable. “Whatever the good Lord thinks. Is Miss Maitland likely to survive?”

“Impossible to say until she regains consciousness. If you will excuse me, sir?” A little put out at his captain’s dismissal of his convictions, Stewart withdrew, returning to his patients.

Hornblower crossed to Bush’s side. The lieutenant was sound asleep, a jumble of papers covered with his competent if unremarkable hand scattered all over the desk. Hornblower had no doubt that Admiral Pellew would have all the facts before him in meticulous detail. Ink was dripping onto the paper – he leaned over and removed the pen from Bush’s slackened grasp. The desk had been dragged across the room, evidently positioned so that Bush could watch over Anna as he worked. Hornblower glanced through the gap in the screens – he could see no outward change in her. Were it not for the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest it would have been easy to believe that she was already dead.

There was a chair beside the cot. Sighing, suddenly feeling unaccountably weary, Hornblower sank down on it. They would reach Portsmouth in a few hours – at least here he could keep a watch over them both, a task far more profitable than pacing the quarterdeck. He tried to make himself more comfortable on the hard chair and leaned back, the usual sounds of the sickbay joined now by Bush’s gentle snores and the faint whisper of Anna’s breathing.

***

“Beauty of a night.”

Matthews turned, hearing heavy footsteps behind him. “Aye, it is that,” he said, as Styles joined him at the rail.

“We’ll be makin’ Pompey soon.”

“Just as well, for them.” Matthews jerked his head in the direction of the Maitlands, still at the larb’d rail. They had been standing there for some time, in each other’s arms, locked within their own private grief. “Let’s hope Miss Anna survives till we get there.”

“She will. She’s fighter, that one. Never seen a woman ‘andle a gun like ‘er. She’ll be all right.”

Such was the conviction in Styles’s voice that Matthews craned his neck round, trying to see his friend’s face in the gloom. “You know that fer sure, do yer?”

“Oh, aye.” Styles tapped his chest. “Got a feeling ‘ere. I’m never wrong.”

Matthews stifled an involuntary snort of amusement. “Really?”

“I were right about the Frogs before Christmas. I knew they’d be trouble as soon as I saw ‘em. Trust me, Matty, the girl’ll be all right.”

“Ladies and gents, Styles ‘as spoken.” Matthews shook his head. “I ‘ope you’re right, mate. Shame to see a young life snuffed out like that, especially by a bastard like that doctor. Don’t know what ‘er parents’ll do if she don’t pull through.”

“Don’t know what Mr Bush’ll do, neither, but it won’t be good,” Styles mused.

“What’s Mr Bush got t’ do with it?”

Styles looked at his friend in surprise. “Yer mean yer ain’t noticed? I reckon we’ll ‘ave more weddin’ bells afore long.”

“No!” Matthews stared at the big man beside him. “You’re jokin’. Mr Bush, married? I don’t believe yer!”

“It’s true! You want to see the way ‘e looks at her – I’m tellin’ yer, ‘e’s lost ‘is ‘eart somethin’ bad.”

“I don’t believe it,” Matthews insisted. “You’d better not go spreadin’ rumours, Styles.”

Styles looked affronted. “As if I would! But just you wait and see, Matty – I’m right, I know I am.”

The bos’n just shook his head again, and went off to make his round of the ship. The last thing any of them needed was more of Styles’s nonsense. Matthews seriously doubted if Mr Bush would appreciate it if the entire crew thought that he was on the verge of getting shackled to a girl he’d only known five minutes. The thought of the first lieutenant being married went against all the laws of nature - if anyone had asked the bos’n to think of it, he would not have been able to imagine a Mrs Bush. If any rumours came to Bush’s ears, Matthews had no doubt that Styles would be licking the deck clean from now until Whitsun.

 

***

“Sir? Sir!”

Hornblower jolted awake. Immediately, a painful crick in his neck made itself felt. Blearily, he realised that he had fallen asleep in the chair. He rubbed his eyes, looking up to see Doctor Stewart bending over him. “…wha…what is it, doctor?”

“Mr Orrock sent word to inform you that the Isle of Wight has just been sighted, sir,” the surgeon said.

“I see. Thank you. Tell Mr Orrock I shall be there directly.” Hornblower struggled into an upright position, managing to get to his feet. He tried to smooth some of the creases from his uniform – as he brushed at some stubborn dust on his trouser leg his hand smacked hard into the side of the cot, sending it swaying. He yelped in pain as his fingers hit the wooden support and pulled away sharply. As he sucked his bruised knuckles, a moan from the cot drew his attention.

Hornblower bent over anxiously – Anna was moving for the first time in hours. He glanced around for the doctor, but Stewart was nowhere to be seen. Turning his gaze back to Anna, he watched her carefully for a moment. She stirred, her head gently rolling from side to side on the pillow, murmuring something under her breath. He leaned closer to try and hear what she was saying – eventually he identified it as a name. Anna’s voice mumbled again, a little louder, and he heard it clearly: “…William…”

“It’s all right,” Hornblower assured her softly, “I’ll fetch him for you.” He turned, stumbling back through the screens and cursing his legs for cramping while he dozed. Bush was still asleep, and would no doubt be in similar discomfort, having been sprawled over the desk for several hours. He did not rouse when Hornblower gently shook his shoulder, so deeply in slumber that he might have been drugged. “Come on, William, wake up,” Hornblower said, shaking him again. There was no reaction. He looked back at the cot – Anna was muttering again, her tone distressed. There was nothing for it. Assuming his most commanding, Pellew-like voice, Hornblower barked, “Mr Bush! Your attention if you please, sir!”

Bush jumped, startled awake. Before his eyes had even properly opened, he was attempting a rather groggy salute. “…sir?” He started out of his chair, trying to come to attention. “I’m sorry, sir - ”

Hornblower rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, William. Your presence is required.” He nodded to the cot.

Bush was on his feet in an instant, sleep forgotten. In a moment, he was bending over the cot, taking one of Anna’s hands in his own. Hornblower watched as her head turned to him, Bush’s fingers tenderly stroking the golden hair that fell over her forehead. Anna’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and a smile curved her lips, a smile echoed on Bush’s face.

Hornblower left them then, heading for the quarterdeck and the business of putting into Portsmouth.

 

To be continued…


	18. Part Eighteen

“He’s dead, then.”

Anna curled up in Bush’s lap, head on his shoulder, her fingers playing with the curls at the end of his queue. Despite his attempts to persuade her otherwise, she had insisted on being lifted from the cot, unnerved by the swaying of it. She was as weak as a kitten, unable to help herself, her eyes huge in her drawn, white face. He cradled her as he would a child, gently stroking her hair.

“He won’t be bothering you again,” he told her softly, kissing the top of her head.

“I thought… had such dreams. I thought he might have killed you.”

“He wanted to. And I would have let him, for…”

“For me?” She looked up into his eyes and shook her head. “I’m not worth that, William.”

“Allow me to be the judge of that.”

Her eyes were dark in the dim light of the sickbay. “You would do that for me?”

He nodded. Since Renown there had been but one person for whom he would have laid down his life – the conscious realisation that there was now another had not come at any one moment, instead it had crept upon him gradually, much as had the other emotions he now associated with this woman.

Anna reached up a trembling hand to caress the side of his face. “I don’t deserve you,” she said. He sighed. Concerned, she stroked his cheek. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I…” He looked at her seriously. “Anna, you hardly know me.”

“That makes no difference to me. From the moment you opened your eyes and looked at me, I felt something. Don’t deny that you felt it too.”

Bush tried to protest, to make a denial, but could not. He could still see her, sitting beside his bed, smiling at him as he woke, her burnished hair hidden beneath that ridiculous matronly cap. “I can’t,” he admitted. “But this is…difficult. I’m not used to…”

“To feeling this way?” She smiled, and laid her head on his shoulder once more. “Me neither. We can find our way together.”

He shook his head. “Do you really want a man who you might not see for months, for years on end? I’m a sailor, Anna, I can’t change that - I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“I know. And I wouldn’t expect you to.” Anna laughed, lightly. “Maybe I could come to sea with you.”

“I think that you should consider it carefully,” he insisted, ignoring the joke. “The difference between your position and mine…”

Her fingers brushed his forehead, as if trying to smooth away the frown lines, teasing the curls at his hairline. “And what does that matter? Is that what’s bothering you, the fact that my grandfather has a title? My grandparents may have managed to smuggle some money out of France, but they still live in genteel poverty compared to their life before. I am used to mending my own dresses and scrubbing the floor – we lived hand to mouth for a long time. I am no great lady.” She tapped the end of his nose affectionately. “You worry too much, Will. And you are taking things too quickly. Let us just be comfortable as we are for now.”

“Will you be happy with that?”

“I have waited this long. There is no need to rush anything.”

Relieved, Bush tightened his arm around her waist. She snuggled in to him, resting her cheek against his. From above them came sounds of activity, feet on the deck, commands being shouted, timbers creaking as the ship altered her course.

“What’s happening?” Anna asked quietly.

“We’re putting into port. I should be on deck.”

“Don’t go, please. I would like to stay here forever, just you and me.”

“And half a dozen wounded seamen, not to mention Doctor Stewart.”

She laughed again, though her eyes were closed, exhaustion overtaking her. “ I don’t care. I don’t care if the whole fleet is watching us.”

He kissed her forehead. “Well, I do. Your parents will be wanting to see you.”

“Maman! Oh, I had forgotten. She is here?”

Bush got to his feet; lifting her in his arms, he set her carefully back on the cot. “I will bring her to you. But rest now. Believe me, I know how it feels to have lost a great deal of blood. You will be grateful later.”

She nodded, sleepily. “You will come back, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’m not leaving you,” he told her firmly.

There was a cough from behind. Bush turned to see Stewart standing there. “Doctor?”

“The captain’s compliments, Mr Bush – we are just putting into Portsmouth. He requests your presence on deck,” Stewart said.

“Very well – I will be there directly. Look after Miss Maitland.”

“Naturally. You have your duties, sir, be assured that I know mine.” There was a knowing smile on the surgeon’s face. Bush would ordinarily have been irritated by it, expecting some homily, but for once Stewart ventured nothing. The old gossip had probably been listening to very word, Bush realised, shaking his head. It would be all over the ship in no time. Strangely, he found that he didn’t really mind all that much.

***

Hotspur was about to drop anchor by the time Bush reached the quarterdeck.

Hornblower had sent Carman ahead in the jollyboat with the reports, and a letter to Maria explaining his plans. It was still early in the morning – he doubted whether Pellew would want to see them before breakfast. The prisoners would have to be dealt with, and then there would be the task of transferring Anna ashore and taking her home. He hoped that Mrs Mason would show a little compassion and not make much of a fuss.

Bush saluted. He had been speaking with Mr and Mrs Maitland, Hornblower had observed – the delighted smiles that spread over the beleaguered couple’s faces told him all he needed to know. Mrs Maitland reached out and clasped Bush to her, much to his consternation, planting huge kisses on his cheeks. He was still rather pink about the ears as he stood before Hornblower now. “Sir.”

“Mr Bush. I take it Miss Maitland is well?”

“As well as can be expected, sir, thank you.” Bush’s face wore its habitual calm mask, but the relief in his eyes was obvious to anyone.

“Excellent. We will take her ashore as soon as possible – I have sent word to Mrs Hornblower.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

Bush raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so, sir.”

Hornblower gave him a sidelong glance, enough to see the smile that was playing around Bush’s lips, a smile that seemed totally involuntary but that he was trying to keep at bay - the smile of a happy man. He found himself smiling in return. “Very good, Mr Bush. Carry on.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bush strode to the rail, back in his element. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed, “Hand to stations! Man the capstan!”

Hearing that familiar roar, after so many days without it, finally convinced Hornblower that the world had been set to rights once more. He only wondered what would await him when he returned home.

***

“Ah, gentlemen. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” Admiral Pellew strode into the great stern cabin of the Tonnant and threw his hat onto the table.

“Not at all, sir – we arrived barely a moment before you,” Hornblower replied.

There were papers in Pellew’s hand, papers that could only be their reports, delivered to the flagship two hours before. The admiral glanced at them. “A most successful engagement, I believe. My congratulations, though I confess, I was a little taken aback when a ghost made his report.” Pellew glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “I am glad to see that reports of your death were a trifle premature, Mr Bush.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Mr Bush was instrumental in the foiling of the invasion plans,” said Hornblower quickly.

“So I see. A fortunate coincidence that the sea should have spared you in precisely the right place, was it not, Mr Bush?” Pellew asked. “Serendipity has its uses. To think of the Frogs on our own soil, and the consequences had you not been there…God’s blood, Boney could have been at Windsor Castle by nightfall!”

“Forgive me, sir, but had you some idea that an invasion was planned along our coast?” Hornblower asked, recalling his conversation with the admiral aboard the Hotspur. Something is happening along the south coast… Pay special attention to small inlets and beaches. All manner of fascinating things wash up there…

“We knew that something was going on, and that a French spy was active somewhere in the south. He could have been anywhere, but you found him, gentlemen - well done. Antoine Lambért – he was known to be active in England for some time, but we could never trace him. I see that he was so sure of himself that he had no need of a disguise - I believe the phrase is ‘hiding in plain sight’. It certainly worked in this case.”

“He was a very confident man, convinced that he would succeed. When his plans failed…”

“Yes. Well, at least there is now one less threat to our security. I will wish to speak with Mr Maitland and Mrs Maitland – they will be able to furnish us with more details. In the meantime, we will be busy smoothing the feathers you ruffled down in Sussex, and dealing with your prisoners.” Pellew glanced at the reports once more. “Miss Maitland appears to have been of no little assistance, not least to you, Mr Bush. How is she?”

“Recovering, sir, thank you,” said Bush, straight-faced.

The admiral looked at him for a long moment, a smile touching his face. It was clear that he had seen the same in Bush’s eyes as Hornblower had himself – Pellew was intuitive, it was impossible to keep anything from him. “Your guardian angel, eh? I shall look forward to meeting her. To have touched your heart so she must be a remarkable woman indeed.”

Bush blinked. “Sir?” He glanced at Hornblower, who held up his hands.

“I have said nothing, I assure you.”

“You had no need to. Plain as a pikestaff,” said Pellew, his smile widening. “May I be the first to wish you happy, Mr Bush? When is the wedding to be?”

“We are taking things slowly, sir,” Bush replied, flushing slightly.

The admiral nodded. “Sensible thing to do. Nothing worse than rushing down the aisle to find you’ve shackled yourself to the wrong woman, eh, Mr Hornblower?” he asked with a wink.

Hornblower stiffened. “Sir?” Good God, was there anything Pellew didn’t know?

“Well, you wouldn’t know much about that,” the admiral continued, much to Hornblower’s relief. He turned back to Bush, frowning. “You look terrible, Mr Bush - you too, Hornblower. The Hotspur will be going nowhere until the prisoners are dealt with and I - and the Admiralty - have been satisfied as to every detail of your exploits. I suggest you get some rest and a decent meal inside you. I grant you both forty-eight hours’ leave – and you have my permission to sleep on shore, Mr Hornblower. Make the most of it and go back to your women. I’ll have another task for you soon enough.”

Hornblower and Bush exchanged a glance.

“Aye, aye, sir,” they said together.

 

***

“He knew. I’m sure he knew!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Horatio. How could he have known?”

“I’m certain he knew. Two days after the storm, after you were lost…he told me to look in all the small inlets and coves. ‘All manner of fascinating things are washed up there’, that’s what he said to me,” Hornblower insisted.

Bush shrugged. “It means nothing. He could have been talking about a wreck, French secrets, anything. There’s no way he could have known that the storm had taken me there.”

Hornblower was still not convinced. “There are spies everywhere. How else could they have known about Lambert?”

“They didn’t know where to find him, did they? They managed to find a man washed up by the sea, but not a Frenchman hiding under their very noses? Pretty poor spies, if you ask me.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t think that Admiral Pellew can see the future,” Bush said, amused.

“Do you not find it strange? Disconcerting?” Hornblower pressed.

“I don’t think about it. You think too much, Horatio.”

Hornblower sighed. “Yes, you’re probably right.” He was not looking forward to returning home – due to the admiral’s summons arriving sooner than expected, he had been forced to send the Maitlands to Mrs Mason’s unaccompanied. He had intended to be there to smooth the way – no doubt his mother-in-law had now told her unexpected guests exactly what she thought.

He discovered soon enough. He had no sooner put his key in the lock of the front door than it opened to reveal the dishevelled figure of Mrs Mason on the threshold. “Oh, so there you are,” she said folding her arms and blocking the doorway. “I suppose you have a good reason for sending all manner of strangers to me without so much as an hour’s warning.”

“I gave you more than an hour’s warning, ma’am,” Hornblower told her, nettled by her tone. “I had no doubt that my wife would show some compassion, even if you did not.”

“And who is going to pay their rent, may I ask? They could be here for months, when I could be letting the rooms for good money!”

“I think you know that I am to be relied upon for payment, madam,” said Bush, behind Hornblower.

Mrs Mason started at the sound of his voice. She peered around Hornblower, eyes widening as she saw Bush. He touched his hat, and she gasped. “You! But you’re…we were told…”

“Evidently you were wrongly informed. I am very much alive, as you can see. I will settle any bills incurred by your guests.”

“You will do no such thing, William,” Hornblower snapped. He pushed past Mrs Mason, who was still gawping at Bush, into the hall. A moment later, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Maria was throwing herself into his arms.

“Oh, Horry! I’m so glad to see you!”

“And I you, my dear.” He patted her back rather ineffectually as she clung to him.

“I did as you asked – the Maitlands are quite comfortable on the first floor. Poor Miss Maitland – she had to be carried up the stairs, but I will see that she gets well again soon.”

“I am sure you will, Maria. I knew that she would be in safe hands with you.”

She pulled away from him, straightening her cap. “I’m sure you’d like some breakfast – you’re skin and bones, Horry, you need a proper steward.”

“I will not disagree with you there. Breakfast would be most welcome, would it not, William?”

Maria frowned, turning – her mouth fell open as she saw Bush, her mother still hovering at his side, unable to believe what she was seeing. “My goodness! Mr Bush!”

Bush smiled. “Mrs Hornblower. You look well, ma’am.”

“We thought…” Maria shook her head briskly. “Well, it doesn’t matter what we thought. You’re safe, that’s the important thing.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll make you both some breakfast. When do you have to return to the ship, Horry?”

“Not for a day or two, my dear. The admiral has granted us some leave.”

“Oh. Then you’ll stay, Mr Bush? You can’t go back to Chichester for so short a time.”

Bush blinked, surprised. “Thank you.”

“It seems that being dead has its benefits, William,” Hornblower said with a grin when Maria had bustled off into the kitchen, Mrs Mason following and telling her not to use all of the new eggs.

“It does indeed.” Bush shook his head. “I’m not sure I’d want to try it all too often, though.”

“What of yourself and Miss Maitland?”

“As I told the admiral, we intend to take things slowly. I think we need to know each other a little better. And neither of us is in a hurry – we are used to going our own way.”

Hornblower regarded his friend carefully, trying to read that impassive expression. “But you are happy?”

Bush met his gaze, the blue eyes adept at revealing nothing. After a long moment, he smiled, and it was warm and genuine. “Yes. Yes, Horatio, I am.”

“I’m glad.” Hornblower offered a hand. “Long may it last.”

Bush accepted the hand, shaking it firmly. “Thank you, sir.”

“It’s a shame the hour is a little too early for a proper celebration. Breakfast will have to do.”

“Any breakfast that hasn’t been cooked by Styles is a cause for celebration,” said Bush dryly.

They looked at each other – after a second Hornblower burst out laughing, Bush following a moment later.

Maria’s head appeared round the kitchen door. “I hope you’re hungry. What’s the matter?” she asked, puzzled at their mirth. “What’s so funny about bacon and eggs?”

Hornblower wiped at his eyes. “Nothing, my dear. Bacon and eggs sounds wonderful. Mr Bush?”

Bush nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”

***

Ten minutes later the smell of frying bacon filled the house.

Bush and Hornblower sat at the kitchen table, discussing some finer point of gun drill. Maria cracked eggs into a pan, smiling to herself because, if only for a short time, she had her husband at home. Mrs Mason muttered for the same reason, though her daughter paid her no heed. Hornblower was content to be well fed and fussed over for the moment, while Bush thanked whatever good fortune had been smiling on him that he was alive to be fed and fussed over.

And, above them all, Anna Maitland smiled in her sleep.

 

The end (for the moment)


End file.
